Do not pass go
by CorvidCoccinelle
Summary: There's been a murder in a London station but it's not enough distraction for Sherlock Holmes... It might be an idea to read 'A cup of tea and a mystery first because this fic sets up the relationship in a oneshot. Finished. Prequel to 'Rubber Ring'
1. Liverpool St

Hi, before you read this you might want to read my oneshot Sherlock/John fic 'A Cup of Tea and a Mystery' because it's where I set up the relationship. Then the murder plot starts here! Hope you enjoy! Please send me a review, feedback is so helpful and makes fanfic less lonely!

We're walking away from Lestrade. He's standing in the massive glass and brilliant lights of Liverpool St station, his face streaked blue with the lights of the squad cars which surround the building and the ambulance that arrived too late for the victim. Sherlock had looked perfunctorily around the crime scene, seeming uninterested. He narrowed his eyes once. Asked some completely, as far as I could tell, random questions.

"Any money on the victim? £200?" He nods, Lestrade and I look at each other in utter bemusement. He nods again. Grabs Lestrade's notebook and jots down three more names and some numbers. He hands them to the confused policeman. "Watch out for these places in the next few nights." That's it. Lestrade stares at the bit of paper in his hand. It's blatantly obvious that he has no idea what Sherlock is on about. Sherlock smiles his shark's smile and turns, his long coat billowing out behind him like someone in a Victorian gothic novel. I trot after him, painfully aware of his brilliance and my utter incomprehension.

"That was exciting wasn't it?" He asks, glancing at me sideways as we enter the dark streets away from the busy crime scene. I glance back, still not understanding what is going on back there. Lestrade is silhouetted in the archway of the station, still looking at the notepad. I nod even though I have no idea what I was supposed to find exciting.

"Yes, yes it was. Very exciting." I don't sound convincing even to myself. Sherlock turns, stopping his long strides abruptly and fixing me with that look which has had me pinioned where he wants me ever since the incident with the note in the tea jar.

"Was it? Exciting?" His voice has taken on a darker, more intense tone. It's the sort of voice he uses to question people. I frown and swallow; I'm not ashamed to say he makes me nervous. He leans towards me; his breath is on my face, the heat of his mouth dangerously near mine. "How exciting John?" His hands push me back against the rough brickwork of the half concealed doorway we have found ourselves in. Then they begin a purposeful descent down my chest in the direction of the waistband of my trousers. There's a part of me wishing, hoping that the waistband isn't where they'll stop.

Sherlock is grinning, I am panting, it's not my fault, he's a force of nature.

"Exactly. How. Exciting. John?" The shark's face lowers to mine. I stop struggling. He chuckles. He's infuriating, his arrogance, his complete lack of concern for the fact we're moments away from a busy London street are maddening. And such a turn on. And he knows it. Cocky bastard. Commuters are walking to the station seconds from where he has me pressed up against the narrow doorway, his hands driving me to distraction and, from the hard bulge against my thigh, he's really enjoying himself. Like I said, Cocky bastard. He's grinning and it's one of those moments where I am convinced he can read my mind. "You love it." He whispers against my ear, the sensitive skin thrilling from his hot breath. I shake my head, not to disagree just in surrender. I wonder for the twenty billionth time how the hell this happened. How did I end up being molested by my genius, utterly infuriating flatmate? And enjoying it, I admit as he licks a slow progress down my neck, deft fingers undoing my buttons with stealth.

I decide that the best form of defence is attack. Sherlock isn't paying attention to my hands; his brilliant, frightening mind is on one thing. I slide my leg aside, he thinks it's so he can have free rein and he moans seductively at what he thinks is my compliance. He loves it when I let him do what he wants. The ego of the man, I sigh as he settles himself against me, not realising my hand is inches away from his now very hard cock.

He's busy now trailing hot, demanding kisses down my chest across to my right nipple. Sherlock's intensity and observation as to the preferences and dislikes of my body is phenomenal. I know and he knows that my left nipple is so much more sensitive, I have an almost imperceptible scar which slightly puckers the right and renders it a little numb. So he starts with that one, knowing that by the time he gets to the left one I will be putty in his hands. God, he _is_ a genius. Almost painful bolts of desire short through me, not alleviated by the soft movements of his fingers at the inside of my thigh. If he wasn't so into it, so obviously aroused himself, I'd think this was all another case of Sherlock Holmes perfecting a skill. It's that too of course.

There's a noise down the dark road. One of the commuters has ducked down the side street to answer his mobile phone. Sherlock is perfectly still. His breathing is ragged as is mine and he presses against me, his body telling me to be quiet. I make my move. The fingers which have crept down without his noticing, I am learning new tricks from him every day, flutter by his erection. I am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, it hisses through his teeth and the sound is erotic that I nearly just come on the spot. God. What has happened to me? I've shot people in a war for Christ's sake, and now this man has me trembling like a teenager. Sherlock's eyes widen as my fingers begin a slow circle over his hard flesh. Then he closes them in that long blink I have grown to crave. His body presses forward, pinning me securely to the wall and my fingers can't move about much but I manage to elicit another moan and maybe even my first whimper from those full lips.

The commuter is telling someone he'll be late, that he missed the tube. Sherlock, eyes closed beautiful mouth slack with desire, whispers.

"He's lying." I stop my movements; pull my hands up abruptly to cup his face. His eyes snap open.

"What?" he hisses obviously annoyed at the interruption. I raise my eyebrows.

"You're supposed to be paying attention!" I hiss back. He frowns, genuinely unaware of the problem.

"I _was_ paying attention. Intensely." He pushes against me, bucking his hips against mine. The sensation is distracting to say the least. "I just overheard him." He's whispering directly into my ear now. Even though he's not saying anything particularly sexy just his voice is giving my legs a serious case of the jellies. He knows this, of course. "Now John, "he moans my name. "Please don't stop what your delightful fingers were just doing to my poor tortured body." I cave. You would too, there is something about the way that he is so self sufficient, so aloof and then he opens right up. It gets me every time.

The commuter's gone now anyway. No doubt off to his illicit affair or to meet his dealer. I push Sherlock away, just so I can reach inside his trousers and stroke along his erection. He puts his hands against the wall, either side or my head and leans towards me. For a moment I regret my actions. He's so involved in what I'm doing that he's forgotten all about _my_ tortured body.

He is thrusting against my hand and moaning so loudly now that I clap my hand over his mouth. His eyes fly open, blue eyes piercing and eyebrows wickedly arched in surprise. I smile and increase the intensity of my stroking, squeezing and rubbing. I don't know if it's the hand on his cock or the hand over his mouth which makes him come so quickly. There's one to ponder John, I think to myself as I hear my name groaned out through my fingers over his lips. Maybe I'll bring it up next time he's being especially obnoxious, I grin.

If I was worried about being neglected I needn't have bothered. No sooner have I extricated my sticky hand from his trousers than Sherlock pounces. He bats my hands away and throws himself on his knees. To someone looking down the street the violence of his actions probably makes him look as though he's going to throw up. It's a carnal, visceral movement. Before I can regain my senses he has my hard cock out in the cold night air. The assault of the temperature only heightens my arousal. He probably knows that, probably did an experiment to prove it and could probably recite the formula for temperature drop to arousal ratio. Cocky bastard.

I'm not sure that Sherlock's interest in reciprocating sex is all altruistic. He definitely sees me like that bloody violin, something to be mastered, to be dissected by that massive intellect and played upon until it plays a tune to his liking but there is also a generous soul in that lithe, agile body. It took me a while to realise that his obvious delight in the power he has over me is based in lack of self esteem. I know, mad isn't it? Here he is, the world's only consulting detective, an IQ higher than the national debt of some developing country and he doubts himself. So every time I give in, every time I come for him, with him, in him, he knows it's because of him alone. Sherlock Holmes, the only man I've let touch my body like this. The only person I've let touch my life like this.

He smiles up at me, I swallow and I can feel my blood racing, crashing in my ears, hammering in my chest. I know what that mouth can do. I've seen it reduce people to tears, to wonder. I've felt it caressing my body until I didn't know whether to cry out in pleasure or frustration. But until now I have never felt it _there_. It was one of the first things I ever did with Sherlock; it seemed natural and right at the time. It still does actually. But for some reason we hadn't gone _there_ with me. Not that I'm averse to the idea, god no. Sometimes I watched him eat or speak and I get all flustered just thinking about it. And he knew that, of course he did. All together now, cocky bastard. The amount of times he'd tongued a spoon with which he'd just stirred a Scotland Yard coffee, just looking at me _that way_ so that only I knew just what he was thinking, well, one time I'd had to leave the room.

And now there was that mouth, grinning up at me. He even licked his lips. Argh.

"Don't look away John." His voice was dark and his eyes shone in the dim reflected street lamp. "I want you to watch." He blinked. All my defences were down and he knew it. My erection glistened only seconds from his face. He cocked his head slightly, put out his tongue and licked. Dear god. It was as though he was tracing liquid fire across me, his mouth was so hot and I was so cold now. Gentle lapping became more insistent, more determined. His tongue probed at the tip of my cock and I cried out despite myself, despite the commuters passing yards away from where we were. His hands were holding my hips and I thought that without them I would buckle under the enormous, overwhelming sensation of his tongue against me. So when he scraped his teeth lightly, I thought I might die.

Without thinking my head lolled back. His grip on my hips tightened. I looked down.

"Don't look away John." I nodded mutely. I couldn't do anything but feel what Sherlock was making me feel. I was that bloody violin. His mouth, his whole mouth was on me. He sucked a trail along the underside of me, flicking the fraenulum with his tongue. My hips began a rhythm of their own and his hands fought to hold me still. His eyes never left my face. I was simultaneously right there in the moment and also floating off watching John Watson shuddering and moaning while Sherlock Holmes put that gorgeous, divine mouth on my most intimate body parts. The image was so utterly erotic that I felt myself tipping over the edge.

He was still looking at me, holding me still with his eyes, his hands, when he opened his lips and swallowed me. His eyes narrowed slightly and some part of me wondered what he was thinking. Then every thought was swept away as he began to move against me. His tongue swirled fire over my tender skin and his cheeks, always chiselled and sharp like some statue of a god, hollowed out as he sucked at me. My hands were flat against the wall and his fingers left my hips and groped for them. He held my hand tightly, his eyes still locked with mine as we both felt the wave of desire rising and rising until I didn't care where I was or who I was. All I wanted was this man, this feeling, this intense experience of body and mind. I came, hard. I heard myself calling out his name. I didn't break his gaze.

It took me a while to regain my composure, hell to make sure I was still breathing. Sherlock bounced up on the balls of his feet, perky and pleased with himself. He grinned so widely I thought his head might fall off at the juncture of his lips. Then his expression softened and he leant against the wall next to me, stroking my head against his chest, gently kissing my temples. Bless him; he just has to remember sometimes that there are other people present. We stood like that for a few moments. I savoured the quiet, the feeling of mutual happiness, of togetherness. Commuters still buzzed along the street, oblivious to the earth shattering exchange we had just experienced. I looked up, breaking away from Sherlock's hands.

"Cocky bastard." I laughed. Sherlock smiled his big smile.

"Is it still cockiness if it's true?" he asked seriously, then he laughed too. From his pocket came the sound of an old telephone ringing. He grimaced, "Lestrade", he mumbled reaching into his deep pockets and pulling out my phone. I raised my eyebrows; I'd been looking for that all afternoon. He paused before answering. "I've lost mine," he said in a matter of fact tone. "I think I might have left it in the oven." He frowned, distracted by this train of thought. Then his face cleared and he continued "I think I've earned the right to borrow your phone now and again John. In fact I think a moment ago you actually claimed I was the son of god." He waggled his eyebrows, then frowned. "What does that make Mycroft?" He was still frowning when he answered the phone. Lestrade's voice was high and fast, there was obviously some problem. Sherlock wasn't listening.

"King's Cross or Marylebone?" he demanded before ending the call abruptly. "Come on, John, the game's afoot!" The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, this was turning into quite an evening.

Ok so this has a plot guys! Or hopefully anyway. :D thanks to Chandler1200 for just being. And to PrincessNala for the encouragement and enthusiasm! Write a review and let me know how I did!


	2. King's Cross

The woman's body was curled up on the dirty floor of King's Cross. From the look of her she'd been there a while, only noticed by her fellow travellers when her body had started to smell. Jesus, what had happened to us all? How could people walk right by a dead body? Sometimes London was scarier than Afghanistan.

Sherlock stalked around the body like some big cat. He circled this way, that way, crouching in and leaning back. The only other people around us were Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson. The latter was leaning on the glass wall of Paperchase, his whole demeanour screaming contempt. The rest of the police were outside turning away angry Londoners and holiday makers. The station was silent apart from the distant hum of their voices.

Suddenly Sherlock lunged, his face closer to that of the dead woman's than any other 'amateur' would dare. He sniffed her lips and turned his face to look up her nose it seemed.

"She's been forced into oral sex." He stepped back, coat flapping at his rapid movement. He steepled his fingers and furrowed his brow. "Where's the money this time?" In the background Anderson snorted. Sherlock whirled to face him. His eyebrows were nearly in his hair. "What? What?" he barked. His tone would have scared anyone else. Anderson just slouched back further and sneered.

"How can you know she was forced Holmes?" He rolled his eyes. Sherlock stopped and addressed his audience.

"How can I...oh god, you are so bloody dim! Firstly, she has minor abrasions on her lips, all pointing to oral sex. Kissing a man with stubble would have produced far more scraping of the skin, this is soft hair." He looked at me, why was I blushing? "Secondly, these abrasions are under her nose. This means she was forced against the man's body, far further than would be comfortable." He glanced over at me again, Jesus, Sherlock just stop it. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were now looking at me too. "Thirdly, she has bruising around the back of her head where her hair has been pulled."

"It could have just been rough sex." Anderson shrugged dismissively, "some _women_ like that." Although his jibe was directed at Sherlock now Donovan was blushing.

"It wasn't, she wasn't aroused, she was scared." Anderson snorted. "If you don't believe me check her knickers, dry as a bone I'll warrant." I felt the tremor of shock that rippled between us all. I couldn't decide whether it was the suggestion to check the corpse's underwear or that Sherlock had mentioned sex at all which had people so ruffled. I smiled quietly.

"How can you force someone to..." Anderson trailed off, uncertain he wanted to show his ignorance. Sherlock strode towards me. There was a menacing look in his eye. Oh my god, what was he doing?

"John, your gun please?" Stupidly, blindingly, trustingly, I reached behind me and handed him my revolver, handle first. Sherlock whirled on Anderson.

"Kneel down! Come on! Get on your knees man!" He bellowed, the loudness of his voice crazy and deafening in the relative silence. It bounced back across the empty space. Shocked, Anderson stumbled to his knees, Sherlock towered over him, looming and terrifying. "Get your mouth on me bitch, NOW! Come on! I _will_ shoot, you know!" Anderson's eyes were wide with fright, Lestrade took a step forward and then froze. I could see what they were all thinking, this is it, Freak has snapped. Anderson shook his head. Slowly Sherlock pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple and pushed. I could see the skin reddening against the pressure. Anderson moved forward hesitantly, his hands came up to Sherlock's trousers. It was all Sherlock needed.

Sherlock stepped away with a flourish, like a magician who had done nothing more remarkable than pull a rabbit out of his hat. Anderson slumped forward. Lestrade gave a nervous giggle. Donovan rushed to prop Anderson up from where he had fallen. I looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. His face was a beatific grin.

"What? Just proving my theory." He turned and walked across the concourse. "Is this coffee place still open?" He shouted as he strode away.

I caught up with him as he helped himself behind the counter. He was still grinning. I cocked my head and tried to look stern.

"Sherlock, that was... just wrong. In so many ways." He looked at me, his face serious, almost upset.

"It was? Oh. I thought you'd laugh. He was actually going to...ugh." He shuddered then leaned towards me. "Mind you, the thrill of power was quite... hmm." He looked pensive. "Maybe I have tendencies towards sexual domination? Hmm." He sipped his coffee. I spluttered. It was all I needed, Sherlock into bondage. He stepped forward, pushing me against him. I couldn't fail but notice how hard he was.

"Hmm... quite possible John. How interesting."

"Er...Sherlock, you alright?" Lestrade was in front of the counter, his look wary. I spun around but not before Sherlock had grabbed my hand. He wasn't going to test his possible tendencies now was he? I had a fleeting vision of me trying to talk sensibly to Lestrade about Sherlock pulling a gun on his forensics officer while Sherlock, in some bizarrely sexual way, held my arm up my back. I closed my eyes briefly and tried to breathe.

"He's fine now. Sorry." I seemed to apologise for him a lot, a bit like the parent of a toddler who has just destroyed your home.

"Yes, yes, fine now Lestrade. Completely fine." Sherlock's voice was calm and controlled, betraying nothing of the way he was using my hand to rub against his hard on. I must have been going blush red, or white or something because even Lestrade stopped his relieved smile to check on me.

"John? You ok mate?" Sherlock gave himself a final squeeze with my hand and released me.

"Yes. Yes. Fine, fine. Just... you know..." I waved vaguely in the direction of the now sobbing Anderson. "Shock, you know." Lestrade nodded. He didn't want to know, I could tell. Sherlock leaned onto the counter, his eyes fixed on Lestrade but half pinning me to the work surface. His hard cock jabbed into the small of my back, he gave his hips a wriggle. He was loving this. Monster.

"So, worked it out then?" He was teasing, he knew Lestrade hadn't worked it out at all. Lestrade knew it too and his face fell. "John's worked it out, haven't you John?" Sherlock turned and smiled at me, he knew that he was too close for comfort. Of course he knew that, he observes people all the time, their social courtesies but he really isn't bothered what any one thinks of him. As witnessed by his actions when challenged by Anderson. I sighed, reluctant to show off, to prove to Lestrade that he really was as hopeless as Sherlock thinks he is.

"Monopoly." Lestrade frowned.

"What? The board game? Eh?" Sherlock sighed and, mercifully releasing me from the weight of his body, leaves the coffee booth and begins explaining his theory, waving his hands around expansively and enjoying himself immensely. I wonder absently if he still had a hard on.

Lestrade walks us to the now crowded doorways of the station. The ambulance has taken the body now that Sherlock and Anderson have done their bit. Even the police can't keep King's Cross closed for long so the commuters and other travellers are clamouring to get in. Lestrade has a lot to deal with but he's still talking Sherlock's theory through because it's the only lead he has.

"So, you think the killer is playing a game of Monopoly?" He shakes his head, but whether it's at Sherlock's idea or incredulity at the machinations of the criminal mind I'm not sure. Sherlock glances briefly down at the frazzled man walking beside us.

"Yes, both victims had £200 carefully placed on their bodies. That's how much both stations cost in the game. Someone's buying the transport." This last comment is to me, he's nodding in approval. "Most people go for Park Lane and Mayfair but the Utilities and the Stations prove more lucrative in the long run." I goggle at him, is he really discussing board game strategy? He frowns, catching my expression and adds, "Christmas with Mycroft." I nod.

"Why would they do that?" Lestrade asks just the question I was thinking. Sherlock shrugs like it's not important.

"Because it's fun? Because they never got to win when they were a child?" Something about how he says this, something bitter and tight, makes both Lestrade and I look up at him. His face is impassive. We reach the glass doors and a uniformed officer lets us through. Sherlock strides out into the pale sunshine, I thank the officer, smile to Lestrade and follow him.

"If he thinks of anything..." I mumble, Lestrade nods, it occurs to me I am Sherlock's interpreter.

"If anything else happens..." he answers, I nod and hurry after Sherlock who is hailing a cab. One pulls in to the kerb almost immediately, how does he do that? He jumps in, seeing me at the last moment and flinging the door back open. How considerate. He pats the seat beside him, I sit down in the opposite flip-down chair. He grins.

"Home? We could test out my new theory?" He suggests looking out of the window dismissively. He's at his most dangerous when you think he's ignoring you. New theory? I'm still thinking about Monopoly and it takes me a moment to catch up. Oh. _That_ new theory, the bondage one. I blush and stammer.

"Sherlock have you always been this highly sexed? I mean, what did you do before we...? No, don't tell me!" I hold up my hand as he turns back to me, smiling, about to explain _just_ what he used to do.

"It's a well known fact John that libido is increased by sexual activity. The more you get, the more you want." He smirks. God help me.

"Is it? I've never heard of that theory, is it a medical theory?"

"No. I read it in Cosmopolitan" He's staring intently through the window and I realise we're driving through Soho. I follow his gaze and quickly look away as we pass a gay sex shop. Sherlock looks like he's about to tell the cabbie to stop. I hurry the conversation on.

"You read Cosmo?" I laugh. He looks back to me, smiles slightly and shakes his head.

"Only for research purposes. It's important to know what nonsense people are being fed. Anyway," he stretches his legs towards me, invading my space, "I now agree with this theory. Having put it into practise and tested its veracity." He smiles and there is something menacing in the smile. Once again I feel like the subject of one of Sherlock's experiments. Like the eyeballs in the microwave or the head in the fridge.

"Sherlock we can't just fill all our spare time with..." I flail a hand, unwilling to finish my sentence. He's out of his seat and kneeling between my legs before I can stop him.

"What?" he says, I glance round to see if the cabbie is looking. In the rear view mirror his face is telling nothing but his eyes dart up and away. "What?" demands Sherlock leaning closer. "We can't just fill all our spare time making you come with my mouth? With your hands on my cock?" He knows he's pushing it now, knows that when he talks like this I have little control. Then he tops it all. "I could always put it somewhere else, something we've not done yet?" He raises an eyebrow and the cabbie swerves the car.

"Sorry gents," he shouts to us never looking up from the road, "bloody pedestrians!" Sherlock smiles a slow smile and my mind races. Did he really just suggest? He did. Do I want to...? Oh god. I might.

To buy time I look out of the window. We're nearly home. Part of me is panicking and another part is getting far too excited. Why does this seem like such a big step? After all, we're pretty comfortable with our bodies now aren't we? Sherlock's long, pale fingers are stroking my inner thigh, it's not helping me focus but I think that's the point.

I've never done what he's suggesting. I have no idea how it will feel, if it will hurt, will I like it? It occurs to me that I need some experience before I can let him do that. I even shy away from the actual words for the act, me, a medical man. Maybe this is my way out? A gracious way out that Sherlock will turn down and the proposition can sit on the shelf for a while, chance for me to think it out. I smile and he sits back on his heels, he thinks he's won.

"How about if I try first? With you? I mean I've at least got experience in _that_ area." If I think I'm going to shock him I am wrong.

"You mean you have experience penetrating another person but not in being penetrated?" I glance back, the cabbie's eyes are starting out of his head. I smirk, Sherlock's grin widens. I nod. Sherlock considers this for a minute, I see that amazing brain filtering, calculating, assessing. Finally he comes to a conclusion and nods, the grin is even broader now.

The cab pulls in to the kerb at 221b Baker St. Sherlock bounds out and leaves me to pay the cabbie. The poor guy is sweating and can't meet my eyes.

"'Ave fun gents." He says and then immediately regrets his words. I waggle an eyebrow.

"We'll try." He can't get away from the kerb quickly enough and his tyres make a dreadful noise. Enough to bring out Mrs Hudson.

"Hello boys," She always calls us boys, she's like some school matron from a Boys' Own magazine in 1920. "Doing anything nice?" Sherlock rushes past her, taking the stairs three at a time with his long legs.

"John is!" he calls down the stairs, stopping at the top, turning and grinning at me. I blush as Mrs Hudson turns to me enquiringly.

"Oh yes?" She's so nosy but it's helped us out on more than one occasion. This is not one of them. I can't answer because I don't know what to say. Sherlock has all the answers, obviously.

"I'm taking him somewhere he's not been before!" He calls down, unlocking the door and beckoning me with a long finger. My plan to put him off doesn't seem to be working. Mrs Hudson smiles at me and pats my arm.

"Ooh that's nice John." She smiles, "make sure you protect yourself from the elements...it looks like it might rain." I swallow, upstairs Sherlock chuckles. Mrs Hudson goes back into her flat and I walk up the stairs like a man going to the gallows or to heaven. I'm not quite sure.

By the time I get there Sherlock is taking off his shoes and socks. On the floor in a heap is his coat, shirt and t shirt. He leans on a chair to remove his last sock and looks up at me. I must look surprised.

" Better get going John, there might be another murder at any minute." And he grins gleefully, this is the best day Sherlock has had for ages. I shake my head, I can't believe it. Socks removed, he goes for his trousers and, before I can say anything, he has them off and then he peels off his shorts. His body is beautiful. He is lean and angular. Any androgyny which might be suggested by his clothes and his demeanour vanishes once he is naked. Pale skin envelopes toned muscle, not bulging and over developed but smooth and lithe. He's like a coiled spring, I can almost feel the energy coming off him. He stands perfectly still, looking at me. His hands are steepled together in his favourite contemplative manner. And he is hard, so hard I can't stand to just look at him, even though I want to. I want to drink this perfect picture in, burn it into my memories forever. But I have to touch. I have to.

I step towards him, he reaches for the hem of my jumper and is pulling it over my head at the same time as trying to kiss me. I am laughing, this is how I imagine Sherlock's Christmas presents must feel. He is smiling and unbuttoning my shirt. His hands are cold and I gasp as he reaches for my nipple with his smooth fingers. The right one, of course. He doesn't need to turn me on, I can feel my erection, painful in my jeans. The prospect of fucking him has had a frightening effect on my body. But he wants to touch me, he's enjoying it, enjoying me. We are both grinning broadly.

In a business like fashion he unbuttons my jeans and begins to wriggle them down, a look of pure delight flashes across his face when he realises how hard I am.

"Fantastic!" He actually claps his hands together. He's not camp at all, he is exuberant and very happy. I am laughing now, fighting my way out of my jeans. He pulls me onto the floor. Every time our naked skin touches there is a wave of desire washing over us. I know what he is feeling because I am feeling it too. I've never experienced anything like it. It's overwhelming and intimate. His hands flutter over me and I return the gesture. Before long our delicate touches are more firm, more purposeful. Our mouths mesh together, he crushes my lips, tasting me as though he too is memorising the moment. We savour this sensation of lust and mounting pleasure. His hands are caressing me, stroking in sure and certain ways. My cock looks a deep purple red in those pale hands, I find myself watching, the sensation and the image combining to an almost unbearable crescendo.

"Stop, Sherlock." There is desperation in my voice, he hears it and his fingers become light and teasing. "If we're going to... do this, " It's lame and I know it, but what can I say? "We have to get..." I trail off as he licks his hand and once again begins the torment. He smiles at me, a big grin full of dangerous and exciting thoughts.

"Are you saying you're going to need some lube if you're going to fuck me? Or is it a condom you want? " he asks innocently. The eyebrows give him away, they usually do. I nod, I daren't do anything else.

"My room, top drawer under the socks. Black bottle. There's a packet there too." I whisper, not believing what I am saying, what we are doing. As quick as a fox he leaps up and bounds away. He's like a desperately erotic Tigger when he's in one of these moods. Don't tell him, but I love it.

I lie there on the floor for a second while I hear him crash about, wincing at the damage he must be wreaking in there. Then he's back, bottle and condom packet in his hand.

"Allow me." His voice is dark and I watch those sharp teeth rip the edge of the silver packet carefully. He takes the pale pink sheath in those long fingers and sits it on the tip of my erection. Then he leans forward and with only his lips he smoothes the material down as far as he can. I hiss. If the feeling of his mouth on me wasn't enough then the sight of him concentrating and careful on me is seriously erotic. God. Sherlock has a massive intellect and right now it is all totally focussed on me. On my hard on actually. When the condom is rolled down as much as he can mange with his mouth he uses his fingers. As he pinches the tip slightly, making sure to stroke his fingers across the head of my cock as he does so he smiles up at me. I have never felt so well treated in my life. Cherished. I feel like he just performed an act of worship. "Where would you like me John?" Each word is punctuated by a kiss up my body until he is leaning over me, breathing heavily.

A good question, I have no idea. He takes this all in and pulls me to my knees. He kisses my lips, my eyelids, my cheeks. He moves lower down my neck, nipping and sucking until I am gasping. All I want is to feel him, to be inside him. He whispers in my ear.

"I think I might lie on my back, it'll be more...familiar for you." The chuckle in his words is not cruel, not aimed at my insecurity or lack of experience, he's excited, impatient. "God , I want you John." He murmurs as he lies back, he offers his body to me. It gives me confidence.

I wriggle nearer, my hard cock bobs against his thighs and he blows out a long breath. I reach down and draw a lazy path along his chest, past his navel and begin to stroke him lightly. He thrusts up into my hand.

"Now John, please now." It's all I need to hear. My worry, my performance anxiety, whatever you want to call it, melts in his burning stare. I slick the lube over my cock and run the slippery liquid over Sherlock's too. My hands keep moving until I am at his entrance. Abandoning all reserve and looking at his beautiful face, alight with desire I slide a finger into him. He stiffens slightly, his cock rubs against mine. I have to do this, I have to do this now. I want to be thrusting inside him, feeling him tight around me, listening to the sound of his voice as I take him, as I make him mine. Briefly I use two fingers, just to convince myself I'm not going to hurt him. He hisses but it's not with pain. Encouraged I decide to go for it.

I push his legs wide apart and I continue stroking his cock with one hand as, with the other, I manoeuvre myself into place. Time seems to slow down, he is looking at me and I am inching slowly inside him. He pants, I am breathing hard. I am trying to go slowly, I don't want to hurt him but the feeling is so intense, his body so tight around me, that I am almost losing control. His hands come up and steady my hips. He doesn't speak he just guides me. He shifts a little and some curvature of the body, some obstacle moves too. Suddenly I am in him as far as I can go. He sighs a long, slow sigh. Then he smiles.

I prop my hand against his knee and draw myself out slowly. The sensation is like nothing I have ever felt before. It's as though his body is reluctant to let me go. The next thrust forward is easy, smooth and I gasp with the overwhelming fire which is stoking through me. Sherlock's long fingers are on my nipples, much more of this and I'm going to come. I decide I need to take some action of my own. My pushing becomes rhythmic, measured. I grab his hard cock with my free hand and I mirror my strokes in and out of his body with my hand , up and down, in and out. Sweat forms on my brow. Sherlock is pushing up to meet me as I thrust forward, the sounds coming from his open, unguarded mouth are beyond sensual. We move faster, together. Our breathing and the sound of our skin sliding together are the only sounds in the room until he speaks.

"Oh god, John. Harder. Harder." His words course through me like electricity and I redouble my efforts. The careful rhythm of before is now a desperate combustion, a forest fire consuming us entirely. Sherlock comes, his cock jerks in my hand and I see and feel the spill of white across his stomach and my hand. His muscles tighten beyond what I thought possible and that, coupled with the look of him, pale face flushed, half curving up as though his whole body is led by that spilling organ, is too much for poor John Watson. I come, stars and lights in front of my eyes. I know I am shouting his name. I hear myself tell him he is beautiful, that I am all his, that I love him.

As we lie there it is these last words that pound in my brain with the blood and the endorphins. Neither of us speak, we are too breathless for words. Sherlock curls at my side and I stroke his hair. We are sticky and exhausted. I am wondering what I am going to do. Did I mean it? I don't have to consider this for long. Of course I mean it. No one has ever changed my life in such a way before him. And a change for the better, the best.

"John?" Here it is, the moment I dread. I expect the scorn, the sarcasm even though I have no reason to expect these things from him. I have no evidence for this conclusion, as he might say. No, this fear is my own insecurity. How could this marvellous, beautiful, clever man love me?

"Hmm?" It's all I can manage to get out. My heart pounds as he props himself on an elbow and looks at me.

"Will you text the word 'Marylebone' to Lestrade for me please?"

Eek. Erm... right. so, review? Let me know what you think. Thanks PrincessNala babes! Love you OHOB!


	3. FleetSt

I wake up to find Sherlock, entirely naked, standing at the side of my bed looking down at me. His arms are folded and he is watching me with a frightening intensity as though he is willing me awake. I think it was this sensation, of being watched by some predator, which has broken into my dreams and opened my eyes. In my groggy state I register two things, one his hard on, just above the level of my head, pointing up towards him like even its saying 'look, pay attention to this guy,' and my alarm clock which says it's four am. Great.

"Hi." He says, like we've just met at the post office. I mumble something, I don't know what, it's early and since we... well, since our relationship changed I've been sleeping better, less nightmares and I'm fogged up with good sleep. Uninterrupted until now. "Move over." It's a command and, without thinking I comply. He gets the warm spot and I get the cold side of the double bed I have. His body is freezing. I feel sorry for him and I don't complain when he snuggles in, but when his cold, cold hands start to work their way underneath my pyjamas, then, I complain.

"Hey! Bloody hell! You're freezing. How long have you been standing there?" Sherlock's face is very near mine and he opens his eyes and sort of shrugs as much as he can with his shoulder in the mattress and his hands on my chest.

"Two hours? You were hard to wake up."

"Were you trying?" I try to fend off the hand which is snaking into my pyjama bottoms, it's not that I'm not flattered, or even turned on, but it would be nice to know what's going on.

"Well I was looking at you. It usually gets your attention. And then when it didn't I began wondering how long it would take before you did wake up. So I waited. It's ok," that half shrug again, "I'm warming up now." I sigh.

We haven't been sharing beds. Sherlock says he sleeps better alone and I think I do too. But this is nice, the warmth, now he's getting warm, and the comfort. And of course the maddeningly stroking fingers are nice too. I smile to myself.

"Why were you awake?" I ask and ruin everything. Abruptly he sits up in bed, my body berates my mouth for distracting him and I try to tell it to shut up, it's not the only thing around here which needs attention. It argues back. Damn.

"Why hasn't he killed again?" Sherlock's brow is furrowed and his hands come from under the duvet, double damn, and I just know he's going to put them into that prayer like position under his chin and that's just what he does. He glances sideways at my little smile and decides it's not important. My brain catches up with his words.

"What? Again? What do you mean, why not? That's good isn't it?" Sherlock shakes his head, he's staring into the darkness of my room and I can almost hear his brain working. It'd be helpful I think, not for the first time, if there was some kind of special effect whereby I could see what he was thinking. Maybe the words could be written in the air, it'd make him easier to follow.

"Maybe his die rolled under the sofa?" I offer.

"Dice," he corrects, "you use two in Monopoly John. Think! First two murders, quick succession, stations from the Monopoly game. The next should either be Fenchurch St which is the name I gave to Lestrade or Marylebone which you texted to him yesterday." He looks at me sharply. "You did text it yesterday didn't you?" I nod trying not to think about what we had been doing when he asked me to text Lestrade, too late, my body has remembered.

"Why didn't you think Marylebone before?" Sherlock frowns. He doesn't answer my question at all. His face lights up, honestly it's like a cartoon how I can almost see the idea dawning on his face, he turns to me sharply and kisses me hard on the mouth. I think I moan, how embarrassing.

"Hold that... thought." He waggles an eyebrow and leans over me, pinning me to the bed and I think 'oh no, he's on that bondage thing again', until I realise he's looking for my phone.

"On the dresser," I'm half glad he has to get out of bed, the warmth is gone but I get to have a long look at him. He is still as beautiful as I remember. I'm beginning to worry about myself. I have never felt this way before. Everything he does and says seems to be amazing, unique, special. I don't stop thinking about him, I haven't spoken to anyone because I know my conversation will be all Sherlock. It will give me away utterly.

Having stretched that lithe body over to the dressing table, retrieved my phone and sent a text he's back in the bed. He turns to me, I have his full attention now. A bit scary and a lot of a turn on.

"Now, Dr Watson, how can I help you this morning?" He smirks at his own humour, he does it a lot. His fingers are on my inner thigh, carefully skirting the part of me which craves his attention the most. I shift and sigh, trying to manoeuvre myself closer to those maddening hands. "Hmm. What shall we do today?" He taps his lips with his one unoccupied hand. "Me? You?" He waggles those eyebrows again and I laugh. He wants to do everything, now, twice please. It's how he is with the world. Once he starts something he carries on until he has analysed, dissected and done it to death. A small, sad voice inside me hopes he doesn't get bored. I shake my head and he takes it as a refusal. His hand stops wandering and he cocks his head. He's never one to force the issue although, to be frank, he hasn't needed to. I put his hand back and he smiles a wide smile again. I decide to try to go for shock and awe. It worked for the Americans. Sort of.

"Sherlock, what I would like this morning is a long, slow, exquisite, " he raises an eyebrow at my vocabulary, I smile, "sucking of my very hard dick." The slow smile spreads across his face. "And then breakfast, preferably a cooked, full English over the road in the cafe." Sherlock looks at the alarm clock.

"The cafe opens at five. That gives me exactly forty three minutes John. Is that slow enough for you?" Before I can answer he's already under the duvet exploring my body with his tongue. He is careful not to confront my scars, at least not the ones which seem serious. We haven't talked about them, I don't generally, but if he asked me I would tell him. I am musing on this when it becomes impossible to sustain rational thought because Sherlock Holmes has his hot mouth running along the length of my erection and then he pokes his tongue into the slit. I jerk off the bed and he holds me down with his hands. I hear him chuckle and a mumble. I lift the duvet, partly to see him, partly to find out what he said.

"Yes, possible domination tendencies." He smiles up at me, his lips wet and centimetres from my engorged flesh. "Are you watching? If you're watching I'll have to make it look pretty AND be interesting. Just let me know." I drop the covers and then change my mind and pull them back. He chuckles into my skin, the feeling is phenomenal.

He lies along the mattress completely taking it over with his long limbs. His mouth is at the juncture of my legs and he is propped on one arm. The other hand is tracing patterns on the super sensitive skin of my balls. His tongue is performing tiny lapping movements which are stoking such a fire in me that, every so often, I buck up from the bed and he has to hold me down. That's when he grins.

I prop a pillow under my head, I'm getting a crick watching him and this makes it more comfortable. He's swirling his tongue over me now, like I'm some kind of ice cream flavour he's never had before. He ducks down and sucks at one of my testicles, I arch up, he holds me down and does it again. The feeling of not being to move and being tortured like this should be uncomfortable but I relax into it, into him. I trust him, this is good. So much for trust issues, I smirk.

Suddenly he envelopes me with his whole mouth, pushing himself down and down until his sharp nose is right against my pubic bone. He's seeing how far he can go, testing himself. There's something terribly erotic about that, the way the tightness of the muscles in his throat contract around me. I find myself catching my breath and hissing it out through my teeth. My hands are in his hair, holding him there. When he glances up at me it is too much. The look in his eyes is something I have never seen before. If it wasn't Sherlock, if it wasn't me, I'd say it was a look of love. For some reason I refuse to decode, this has more impact on me that anything we've done so far and I am going to come, now and hard. So I tell him.

"Sherlock, ah, god man. I'm going to... fucking hell that is beautiful, beautiful." I groan. His mouth is off me in seconds and he looks at the clock. He frowns.

"That's only nine minutes John..." He starts to say something else but I grab his hair and push him down, no patience for niceties. He smiles to himself, cocky bastard, and slowly, slowly swallows me down until he's pressed against me again. He pulls back, scraping his teeth lightly, letting go of one hip to cup my balls and pull slightly. My hips are off the bed, I am making small thrusts, trying so hard to be careful but he doesn't want that, he doesn't want careful, he wants my whole hearted abandon. He scrapes his teeth down and up a little harder this time. I give him what he wants. With a yowl which I am sure wakes up the entire street, I shout his name, tell him he's a god, he's beautiful, a genius, oh god, yesyesyesyesyes and a host of other superlative, mad phrases and I come. I feel him swallow. It is indescribable.

For a few moments I lie there panting. I can't get my breath back and I feel a movement beside me. I crick my neck to look and Sherlock is next to me, his hands on his hard cock, stroking himself. I look at him, he is looking right back at me. Jesus.

"If we hurry up we can check the internet before we go for breakfast. Or have a shower." He mumbles but he's intent on his hands now. It's typical Sherlock, he thinks of things with a different set of priorities than anyone I have ever met. I pull one of them away and kiss it, replacing it on his hot, hard flesh with one of my own. Together we stroke, tease and squeeze, our eyes never moving from the others. Sherlock grabs my shoulder like he's going to crush my bones to dust. He's shaking and shuddering, his hips following our movements desperately.

"John Watson," he whispers, too far gone to be registering what he is saying. "Good god man. You are amazing. I...I...I...lo..." His eyes almost roll back in his head as he comes, but he's still looking at me, into me. It's frighteningly intense and thrillingly intimate and I wish to hell that he'd finished that sentence.

The shower takes a bit longer than we think because, even though Sherlock says he doesn't want one, he gets in anyway. I frown as he crowds me into the cubicle.

"Soap, possibilities." He explains and slicks his hands with bubbles.

So it's ten minutes after five when we sit down and order two full English breakfast, his with scrambled eggs not fried, and two mugs of tea. The Polish waitress smiles nicely and I can almost see her telling her dad in the kitchen that the breakfasts are for 'the two nice gay men over the road'. How come everyone knew before me? I frown and Sherlock misunderstands, he doesn't do it often, it shows he's distracted.

"Yes, I was confused too until you said that thing about the die." I'm just about to speak when she comes back with the tea. Sherlock dazzles her with a big smile. "Thank you." His voice could melt the coldest heart when he wants it to.

"Die?" He looks blankly at my question and then gathers his thoughts.

"What? Yes. Die. I hadn't thought that he was playing a game!" He is excited now, his eyes are wide open and his hands clasped together. "I had presumed he was just working around the board. Then I remembered last night," he smiles at me, I blush, for god's sake John man up! "That Marylebone is before Fenchurch on the board, I presumed he was just working his way around but he can't be, there'd have been another murder by now. But he's playing! That's why there was no Marylebone and there might not be a Fenchurch for ages. He has to land on the square! He was lucky with the last two but he's obviously not landing on stations now!" He sits back and sips his tea. I am imagining some bizarre serial killer in his room, playing a board game. Then something occurs to me. I am about to speak.

"What if he's not playing alone?" Sherlock hisses, leaning across the table. His eyes are positively wild with excitement now. It was what I was going to say but he's taken the ball and he is running with it, fast. "Yes, yes. There might be more murders involving money and specific locations. What if the other player, who knows, players? What if they are buying up Park Lane or Piccadilly? It wouldn't register with Lestrade until it was far too late. John, phone!" His hand demands and I pass him my phone and he sends the fastest text I have ever seen. I know he is dextrous, am I still blushing? God. But really his thumb flies over the keys and he presses send with as much aplomb as if he was launching a ship. Then he looks back up because the waitress has our breakfasts. Before we start I have something to ask.

"Sherlock, do you know where Liverpool St is on the Monopoly board?" Something has just occurred to me. He nods, I see him thinking as he forks bacon into his mouth and then he almost chokes.

"Of course John! Liverpool St is before the Go! Square! This mustn't be the first murder. If they're playing the game then we must have missed at least the first round of the board!" He eyes me and I can see he was impressed with my own deduction.

We're still eating when my phone buzzes back and Sherlock lets me read it. He's busy eating, refuelling as he probably likes to think of it. The text is from Lestrade and it says 'Whitechapel Rd £60 last week. Euston Rd £100 the week before. Fleet St. £220 last night.' I read it out.

"Brown, blue and red and someone buying the stations." He is chewing and the words are slightly muffled but I am still impressed.

"How do you remember the colours?" he smiles around his fork, lucky fork.

"Christmas with Mycroft." He shrugs. "So, maybe four players. Ooh this is fantastic!" I shake my head, he really is incorrigible. "Can we go to Fleet St this morning?" he asks, like a child asking to go to the zoo. I smile indulgently and pat his hand.

"If you're good." I condescend, sipping from my mug. He looks up at me, full beam.

"I'm always good." He says with a raise of an eyebrow. I choke on my tea.

We're at the crime scene on Fleet St. Actually just off Fleet St, just down a tiny alleyway alongside a newsagents and Sherlock is already wondering if the killer, or player as he is now calling them much to my concern, was allowed to buy the street because, surely they have to be killed in the right location? Lestrade and I are sending each other concerned glances, Sherlock does sometimes seem to have no thought for the fact that the victim is actually dead. Anderson refused to come this time and Lestrade let him off, I don't know who's more grateful, us or Anderson.

"I mean, that's not the game is it? You can't land between squares can you? Surely killing them here invalidates the buying of the square? Well, it should." He says to no one in particular, pacing back and forward. "It would if I was playing." He stops and looks at us. He registers the look on our faces and adds, "not that I would be playing this game, obviously. No, no far too er... bad." Bad? Did he really just say that? Honestly.

Lestrade has had enough, he sighs and puts his hand in his coat pocket and brings out an old fashioned notepad. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, no doubt about to scoff, but I shake my head and he shuts his mouth. I wonder, am I a lion tamer or a carer in the community?

"Money, £220 exactly found in the victim's hands. No other money or ID on the body, no evidence of sexual activity." Sherlock pulls a face to show he's interested and then nods.

"And the others? Had they been assaulted too? Sexually?" he adds winking at me when Lestrade glances to his notepad again. He really is the most inappropriate person I ever met. Lestrade shakes his head.

"Nope. Just the Liverpool St and the King's Cross victims showed any evidence of that kind of thing." Sherlock nods again, then whirls round on the spot scanning the scene around where the body was found. He's already expressed annoyance that Lestrade hadn't called him in to see the corpse in situ but, as the policeman has wearily explained, no one realised that they crimes were connected.

Sherlock sees something in the corner, by a rubbish skip and pounces. It is a splash of red paint, he skims his finger over it, it's new. He indicates to Lestrade that they need to take a sample by snapping his fingers and pointing. While Lestrade waves to one of his men Sherlock steps back to us, he is thinking, his hands are under his chin again.

"I want to see pictures of the previous crime scenes. And I want you to look as far back as you can and see if any other crimes fit this description too. Who knows how long this game has been going on?"

"Monopoly can take ages." I say, Sherlock nods fiercely. I think about how awful his Christmases must have been.

"I'll have them sent round to Baker St." Lestrade says, already directing someone to get the necessary things in order.

"In the mean time you might want to watch these locations." Sherlock passes him a note. On it, in colour coded writing, are the names of the other streets which feature on the monopoly board in the colours red, blue and brown. And then the names of the two stations, Fenchurch and Marylebone. "Come on John, I think I need a coffee."

Starbucks is the last place I imagine Sherlock would want to go but he says he sometimes thinks best in a crowd. He sends me off for coffee, just coffee nothing fancy, and he gets out his PDA. He is clicking and typing away when I come back. I have bought muffins. He smiles at this and takes the lemon one.

"That was mine." I fake grumble. He puts the PDA back in his pocket and takes another bite.

"Your actions this morning indicated that you were in favour of sharing." He grins widely. I feel myself go pink. When am I going to get over this? Sherlock isn't bothered about my embarrassment, in fact he carries on. "Now, something I have read about gay sex is that it's often performed in public toilets. They have toilets here John." His eyes are sparkling with his new great idea. I nearly spit out my coffee.

"What you're not really suggesting?" I splutter. He laughs, it's a real laugh, from inside his chest.

"No, no. I just wanted to see your face. We can work up to that." He ignores my continued spluttering at the suggestion. "Anyway we have go home, those photos will be waiting." He gets up, swigging the last of his coffee and I am glad I got myself a 'to go' cup.

Strangely, he waits for me rather than striding past and away as he usually does. He even gestures for me to go first. I am confused and I guess my face registers this because he leans towards me and whispers.

"No after you John, I'm just going to watch your arse." I jump and walk towards the door as fast as I can hear him chuckling behind me, I wonder if this is how the three little pigs felt.

So, the plot thickens eh? Don't add this as a favourite, send me a review so I can get better and better! What's your favourite bit?:D

I would like to thank my own 'Baker Street Irregulars' PrincessNala, Munchieees and Peachsilk for all their help, encouragement and detailed feedback which are helping this fic to develop and my confidence to improve! You're sparkly stars!

Thanks also to OHOB, I love you babes!


	4. Chance

Sherlock is poring over the pictures, he's been doing it for hours. I've tried making cups of tea, they sit going cold on the bookshelf next to him. I tried going out and coming back but he hadn't moved. If he hasn't seen whatever he's looking for by now then my guess is it isn't there. But still he looks, his magnifying glass in his hand, back bent and silhouetted now by the large standard lamp he has moved over to the table so he can still see even though it is dusk and the pale blue light of night time London spills through the windows. He's still in his coat and scarf which he didn't bother to take off when we got back from Starbucks. The pictures arrived and he started look at them with that intent stare. That was noon, now it's seven at night. I am sitting now in the armchair by the fireplace, eating Chinese food out of a carton with a fork. Sherlock's food has gone the way of the cups of tea. Lestrade has texted my phone twice to ask if Sherlock's found anything, both times I have just replied 'no'.

There's a knock at the door, Sherlock doesn't even look up, I answer it and it's Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello boys," she crinkles her face as she looks around the room, it is a mess, usually I clean up when we're not on a case but recently I've been preoccupied. Ahem. I look at Sherlock, he hasn't even glanced up, let alone said hello. I smile apologetically for him, again.

"Hi Mrs. Hudson, he's busy." She gives me a look which tells me that she knows all about suffering for 'your man'. I shake my head slowly I don't want her getting anymore ideas, even if they are true. "Did you need something?" She seems to remember what she's come here for as I say this.

"Ooh John, I came because I was talking to Clara next door. She said she's been hearing some dreadful noises at night and once in the afternoon. She wondered if you'd got a dog. I said no, no pets in my flats. Anyway she said there was this yowling early this morning, ooh about fourish she said. Said it sounded like some kind of devil dog. I wondered if you'd heard anything?" Her smile is polite but I wonder if she's taking the piss. I glance at Sherlock. Nothing, not a hair has moved, I'm not sure he's even blinking.

"Dog? Yowling? Nope. No. I don't think I heard anything." I shake my head, hoping it's convincing. She is waiting for something else. "Er.. But we'll let you know if we do, right. Yes we will." She nods now, her eyes still scanning the room, her lips pursed with disapproval.

"If he's too busy to give you any attention, love, you can always come down to my flat." I am startled, what does she mean? Then I realise that she is being sympathetic. "Mr. Hudson was like this about work, love. Oh drove me mad he did, I couldn't get a word out of him for days sometimes. Anyway if you get bored..." she points downstairs and turns to leave.

"Thanks, I will." I call after her as she shuts the door. Sherlock still doesn't move. I go to the laptop and flip up the screen. I'm still blogging but now my blog is private. I always wondered what good it was to have a blog that no one could read but writing down what has been happening to me over the last week has really helped clear my head, sometimes anyway. I start to type, my two fingered typing which has become quite speedy over time and soon it is dark in the room, I've written up what happened this morning and Sherlock is still silent.

The pool of yellow light from the lamp illuminates his face and I look up as I power off the laptop and study his features. He has a chicken pox scar, just one, and it makes me imagine a poorly Sherlock as a boy. Somehow in my imagination he's in striped flannel pyjamas like someone out of the Famous Five. I giggle to myself as I add some spots and a thermometer in his mouth to the picture. I wonder about his childhood. Why do he and Mycroft have such a difficult relationship? And what's the deal with Mummy?

His eyebrows are dark brown and quite shaped. They highlight how chiselled and hollowed his face is in the overhanging lamp light. His pale blue eyes are scanning the pictures, back and forth, back and forth. His mouth, usually full and wide is pursed with concentration. I sigh. He isn't going to move. I get up from the chair and decide to go to bed. I feel a little disappointed, after all I've had no attention from him for most of the afternoon. And I am annoyed by my petulance about it all. It shouldn't bother me but it does. It does because, over the past few days, I have got used to his attention, I even like it now. The way he looks at me like he might pounce and eat me at any moment. Even thinking about it now makes me shiver.

For a moment I consider going over to him, trying to reach around and distract him with my hands, kiss his neck, take his attention from the pictures. But I won't because I am frightened, frightened of the rejection I might get, that all I am is a distraction for that brilliant mind until a case gets interesting. I sigh again and go to my room. He doesn't even look up.

I climb into my bed, teeth brushed and pyjamas on and I can't help but feel a little sad at the contrast from when I got up this morning. I notice that I should change the sheets but I can't be bothered to get up now. My head on the pillow I begin my ritual for sleep but Sherlock, downstairs, still not moving for all I know, invades even that. The smell of him is everywhere.

It's slightly sandalwood and something else. Maybe it's just him, I can't imagine him wearing a scent. Nonetheless the smell pervades my bed. I breathe in the pillow feeling like some heroine from a bad film. I daydream about this morning, his hands on me, his mouth. Jesus, he's a clever bastard with that mouth. My hands find their way under the duvet and into my pyjama bottoms. What is it Sherlock said about libido being increased by sexual activity? I'm inclined to agree. Until a few weeks ago I didn't wank much. Didn't feel up to it, didn't see the point but now just the smell of him and the memory of him have me hard and hungry.

I turn the light off, to help my concentration, and begin my deliberate flashback to the morning. Obviously my hands are not as good as his, and my imagination and memory can only work so much magic but soon I am lost in my lust and reverie. I flick my thumb over the tip of my cock, like he does with his tongue and I moan his name, thinking of all those things I want to say to him, do with him. I imagine him lying under the duvet, devouring me with his wicked grin, those blue eyes burning into me. In my mind I see him in the throes of his orgasm, saying my name, telling me I am wonderful, that he loves me, as he comes. This is when it starts to work. I feel that heat rising, that delicious paralysis which cuts out everything else. I don't want to stop now. I moan his name.

"Sherlock, oh god, yes." There is suddenly a weight on the bed beside me. I stop my hands, my body still jumping and shuddering, desperate for its release and I open an eye.

Sherlock is still in his coat. He is sitting perfectly still on the bed but he is watching me intently, hungrily. I scramble to sit up, embarrassed and awkward. Why am I embarrassed? It shouldn't be embarrassing, after all I'm only doing what he has done in the last few days but I am embarrassed. This admission of need, of desire for him, has me blushing. He stands up. He hasn't said anything and, apart from the burning eyes, his expression is unreadable. I'm beginning to think I've fucked it all up somehow when he removes his scarf and throws it on the floor, then he shrugs off his coat. He's kicking off his shoes and socks and pulling back the duvet and, before I can say or think anything, he is kissing me like a madman, like I'm his oxygen supply.

I'm not complaining but I don't understand what's going on. I thought he was annoyed with me, with my presence in the flat when he was trying to think. And now he's acting as though he can't survive without me. His mouth is hot on my lips, and he's taking off his clothes as he devours me. His shirt is flung out of the bed and his skin is on mine, his weight on me. I'm ultra sensitive, alive with desire and this body contact is overwhelming. He growls in frustration because his search for skin is impeded by my pyjamas, he briefly sits back and all but rips them off me. It'd be funny if it wasn't so fucking sexy. His lips are at my ear.

"What were you thinking about John?" he's gasping and it's a bloody turn on, he sounds like he might be drowning. He's hard against my leg and he's grinding against me as he kisses my neck. "Well? What were you thinking about?"

"You." I tell him, not sure if this is the right or wrong thing to say.

"Good." He grunts, melting me a little more. His cock pushes aggressively against mine, I am so near the edge. "What about me?" Oh god, what do I say now? I can't make anything up, my brain is mush.

" I was thinking about this morning, oh god." This last is because he is nipping at my chest, not even bothered with the right nipple, he's that impatient.

"Hmm?" he prompts, another buck forward of his hips sends shivers through me. The rough seam of his trousers is rubbing on the delicate skin of my groin. It's driving me mad.

"I was thinking...oh... I was thinking about your mouth on me. The way you looked when you came." He moans now, he pushes his hand between us, he is using it to pleasure us both.

"How do I look when I come John?" God if he keeps this up I might die. I am just answering him now, I have no energy for guile or coyness.

"Beautiful Sherlock, you look beautiful. Your mouth open and your eyes wide and I know it's all for me." I can't help it, the words come rushing out and I can't stop them.

"It is all for you John, I'm all yours." He flips onto his side and wriggles out of his trousers, his shorts. Our bodies are on fire, where they touch it feels like the bedclothes should be scorched. But when he lies on top of me again, this time skin to skin, our cocks touching, our bellies and chests flush against each other and he starts to move over me? This is heaven. I open my eyes and he is looking at me just as I knew he would be. Those blue eyes bore into mine. Every movement he makes elicits a hiss, a moan of pleasure from his lips. He is gasping and his arms brace his weight at the sides of my head so he can be closer to me, rub against me with more insistence. His dark hair hangs about his face as he concentrates. He moves one hand beneath the duvet and he spreads my legs wide about him.

I am panting, unable to stop him even if I wanted to. His hot skin is against mine, the tip of his cock at my entrance. He doesn't move. Slowly and deliberately he looks down at our bodies. It kills me the look on his face. The lust and the concentration as he slowly moves against me, not penetrating me but rubbing his hard length along my sensitive skin and up, dragging himself against my balls until he reaches my cock. I think I am hyperventilating. He does this so slowly and with such intent, his mouth open now and those sounds, those maddening, erotic sounds are creating such a fire in me that I think I have never been so turned on in my life. He stops looking down, he looks right in my face intently and with determination. He moves again slowly, forward and up tormenting me, setting me on fire.

"Next time John," he breaks off and moans midsentence as our hard flesh is pushed together by his movements. "Next time John I'll be inside you. And next time you'll ask me for it." Christ. That does it, I can't do slow anymore, I thrust upwards and for one minute it feels like that next time might be now, he's so close. But then he moves up and along me, pushing and needy and fantastic. He's leaning on his elbows now, face against mine.

"Come for me John, come for me. Be mine." He breathes into my ear. How can I do anything else? I feel myself start to shake as I come hard. He is thrusting frantically, the bed squeaking and the covers thrown onto the floor by his efforts. He arches back, his eyes rolled back and his mouth open.

"Aahhhhh!" he shouts and it's like a war cry. Like someone has cut his strings he falls over me. We are sticky and sweaty and the bed is ruined. But we lie there, panting like two spent swimmers and the languor of our bodies is such that I can't tell where I start and he ends, whose limbs are whose. After a few moments, did I drift off to sleep? I feel so relaxed, so heavy. He turns his face to me, his eyes are not wide now, they are low lidded and he is dribbling onto my chest. I don't care, he can do what he likes.

"We've made quite a mess here." He smirks. "Do you think you can make it to my room to sleep?" I pull back so I can see his face.

"Is it any tidier?" I laugh. He shakes his head.

"Well, the bed has sheets on it and it isn't damp." He smiles slowly.

"Sounds delightful." He peels himself away from me and I wince as I sit up, muscles I have not used for a long time complaining of their rude awakening. He puts out his hand and helps me up. He doesn't let go of my hand as he leads me to his room. He throws some books off the bed and something smashes. He doesn't bother to look what it is. He turns back the duvet and pulls me into bed with him. He turns me over and cuddles in close. Sherlock cuddling? I want to pinch myself but I am scared I will wake up. He kisses my neck gently. He's being so affectionate and I am trying to just enjoy it but I can't. I half turn to face him.

"Why are you being so nice?" That's wrong but I don't know how else to say it. It's ok though, he understands.

" I looked up from those pictures and you were gone. And it made me feel..." he pauses, blinks slowly, licks his lips like it's an effort, "sad. It made me miss you John and I was thinking about how I would feel if you weren't here. And then I came looking for you and you were doing that." His eyes open and are wide, scanning me like he did with the pictures. I flinch. "And I wondered if this thing had just been a substitute for that, for wanking. And then you said my name." He closes his mouth but I think he was going to say more. After a moment, where he breathes and I look at him, he carries on. "I think I'm happy John, I think I'm happy because of you. And I wanted to show you." Bloody hell, I can't believe he just said that and it looks like he can't either. He half shrugs and closes his eyes, conversation over. I look at him for another minute and then I turn over. His long fingers are laced through mine, his chest and belly flush against my back and it's so clichéd, so sickeningly romantic and I stop worrying about it and I fall asleep.

When I wake up he's further away in the bed, our bodies still touch because he has his hand on my stomach as he lies face down in the pillow. He's snoring gently. I smile and stretch a little, careful not to wake him. I wallow. I wallow in how happy I feel, the pleasant ache of my muscles from the exercise of the night before, his hand on me, possessive and comforting. I try so hard to avoid the wheedling voice of doom, you know the one. The voice that tells you it can't last, that you're not interesting, clever, attractive enough. I tell it to shut the fuck up. I decide right there and then, in that bed, that I am not listening to it anymore. Even if this is fleeting, even if Sherlock woke up now and wanted nothing to do with me, god that hurts, then I would have had the last tremendous week wouldn't I? I've been in enough life and death situations to know this is the only way to live.

After a while I get a bit bored and I need a pee badly. I wriggle from under his hand and hear him mutter something.

"Old Kent Road, Community Chest, harder John, harder." I smile, I daren't imagine what his dreams are like.

I nip into my room and avoid looking at the carnage while I get a clean pair of pyjama bottoms out of the drawer. After my trip to the bathroom, yes I do brush my teeth, thanks for asking, there's no point having morning breath when there's a chance of kissing if you don't have to. I pad into the kitchen and get the coffee machine on. I am making toast when I hear him walk into the front room, pick up the pictures and go back to the bedroom. He is still naked, I have put my pyjamas back on. The image of the big cat goes through my mind again, he prowls when he's focussed, luckily sometimes that focus is on me. I give an involuntary shiver and smile to myself. Honestly John, you are hopeless mate.

I get things on the tray and go back into the Sherlock's bedroom. He looks up from where his is sitting cross-legged, still naked, on the bed with the pictures spread out over the covers. He moves some over for me as I put down the tray. He has a big grin on his face.

"What?" I ask, pouring a coffee and handing it to him. He shakes his head, still smiling ruefully, he looks embarrassed. "What?" Now I have to know.

"I thought you'd gone. You know, when you weren't here." He gestures at the bed. "I went into your room, it's a bit of a mess in there, "he smiles again, "and you weren't there either. And now here you are, with breakfast. Wonderful. Happy Sherlock." I laugh that he is talking about himself in third person and I beam because he missed me. He looked for me.

"I was in the kitchen when you got the pictures Sherlock, didn't you hear me?" He raises an eyebrow, shakes his head. "Oh you're losing your touch." It's a joke but he looks alarmed and I pat his hand and pass him the toast. "Joke, joke." He twists his mouth and accepts the peace offering, cramming it into his mouth like he's a starving man, everything he does is like that.

His attention is back to the pictures. He frowns and picks up two and then puts them down. I lean over and try to see what he's looking for.

"I thought there'd be paint." He says, obviously annoyed with himself. I look and maybe it's because I haven't really looked before or maybe it's what he said about the paints but I notice something. On the picture from Whitechapel Rd the victim is lying with his legs on some bags, they look like normal recyclable paper bags but they are brown. Quickly I glance at the Euston Rd picture and I see it immediately, a scattering of blue flyers, just by the victim's left hand. It's tenuous and it might be wrong but it makes me think. I'm about to open my mouth and say this when I realise I don't want to tell him. Sherlock spent all afternoon looking at these things and, if I'm right, he'll be infuriated that he missed it. Instead I ask him.

"What are the colours for Whitechapel and Euston?" He glances from the picture to my face and back. He pokes his finger at the brown bags and the blue flyers.

"Brown." He says, a big grin spreading across his face, "and blue. " He leaps out of bed and I grab the tray. The toast slides onto the bed, jam side down of course, but the coffee stays upright. He looks at the mess he made. "Better ask Mrs. Hudson to change the bedding." He is pulling on socks and a t shirt as he speaks. "Or we'll have nowhere to sleep tonight."

"She's not our housekeeper." I call after him as he leaves the room and comes back with my phone, he's texting Lestrade. He's off again and I hear him brushing his teeth, it sounds painful. Then he's back and he's got my jeans, my green shirt and my Arran jumper. He throws them at me, grinning like a madman. The phone in his pocket beeps and for a moment he looks confused.

"Phone." I say. He grins and digs it out of his pocket, checks the screen, bigger grin. He looks up I have on my shirt, jumper and socks, he didn't bring my shorts. He raises an eyebrow.

"A charming ensemble." He murmurs, and comes towards me with some serious intent written all over his face. I laugh and step back, almost falling on the bed and tipping the coffee everywhere. He pushes up against me.

"We'll both have to sleep in your room tonight then John. My bed's all wet now." His hands come around me and he grabs my arse and pulls me into him, he smiles. " Luckily a bed is not required for all the activities I have planned for tonight but it'll be important afterwards, you'll need your sleep." He kisses me slowly and I moan. Then he's away but not before he's slapped me hard on the behind. It stings, I gasp. "Get dressed John, I like the look but I don't think we should greet the Scotland Yard constabulary like that!" I look down, maybe he has a point. There is some banging and crashing, god knows what he's doing. I gather up the pictures from the bed, most are soaked through. I dump the bedding on the floor, hoping they won't ruin anything underneath.

The doorbell rings and I hear Lestrade's voice, bloody hell that was quick. I rush into my room and get my shorts, pulling them on quickly and dragging my jeans over the top. Sherlock calls from the front room.

"Dr. Watson, get your gorgeous arse down here please! There's a crime to solve!" Then he laughs, I wince. Why does he have to do that?

Mrs Hudson is in the hallway in her dressing gown. She's got a big grin on her face.

"Nice evening John? Get up to anything nice?" Over use of the word nice I think, until I remember the shouting, the breaking things, the screaming and the generally incredibly loud sex noises of last night. Jesus. I close my eyes and nod, what can I say. When I open them she is still smiling. Then she winks. Christ.

Lestrade is at the front door, holding it open for me. As I pass him he looks up at me sulkily, if I didn't know better I'd think he was jealous. Sherlock is in the cab, door open, hand beckoning, the grin on his face is enormous.

Thanks for the reviews and the comments guys! I really appreciate knowing what you're thinking about this.

Special thanks go to The Baker St Irregulars, PrincessNala, Munchieees and Peachsilk. You are making this experience even more fun! Keep the suggestions, favourite bits and ideas coming!

I've just set up a yahoogroup for lovers of Sherlock/John and the lovely Mr Cumberbatch. We'll be at yahoo groups 'DearSherlock so come and find us. I'm not playing Mum but it's somewhere we can chat and share kidnap fantasies, gossip and fangirling!


	5. John's turn to roll the die

There is a weird tension in the air as we take the cab to Scotland Yard. Lestrade is riding with us instead of what usually happens which is that Sherlock refuses the police car and Lestrade goes in ahead in a squad car. This time he says he needs to brief us before we get to the station. He's looking at a sheaf of notes and his voice, his entire demeanour is much quieter and slightly grumpier than usual. I've noticed and I'm sure Sherlock has, remember what we said about your mother's knickers? But none of us are letting on to the tense atmosphere.

"Right, after I saw you yesterday I did some digging around and I found some interesting stuff." Sherlock's eyebrows are raised but he says nothing. "There's some evidence which points to this game having gone on more or less for ages. Not 'until bedtime ' ages like the board game Sherlock, I'm talking since 1960 at least?" Sherlock nods.

"But there are gaps right? Gaps of... five years?" Lestrade looks blank and checks his notes.

"Er...yeah, that would fit. How did you?" Sherlock snorts.

"Easy. Monopoly was first patented in 1935 by Charles Darrow. If they've been playing all that time then they've got to be new players, the old ones would be dead." This last bit is an aside to himself, like he's just working it out as he speaks. " You said more or less and you mentioned 1960 specifically and this is 2010 so it makes sense that this is an event which happens in anniversary years. Since it started in 1935 it would make more sense if you'd said 1955 or 1965 but you didn't you said 1960 so they must be playing at intervals of five years. Pretty obvious really. Ooh it's their seventy fifth anniversary game!" He claps his hands. "Must be a big one right? After all haven't they brought out a new edition?" He grins, pulls his collar up on his coat and slumps in the corner, he looks asleep.

Lestrade looks at me. I can see he's dying to say something but he doesn't. He just looks at Sherlock and shrugs. After twenty uncomfortable minutes in silence and London traffic we get to Scotland Yard. As though he knew exactly where we were Sherlock leaps up and exits the cab, racing into the building. I leave Lestrade to pay the cabbie, moody bastard.

Lestrade's office is a glass square off a large open floor, the sort of place where people are separated by weird carpeted bits of board which can be moved about, you know, cubicles. I hate it, couldn't work here, no privacy and no comradeship. You've got to have one or the other.

Donovan's here, she's sitting at the desk, just off to the side of Lestrade's chair, sipping coffee and looking at notes which seem to be identical to the ones from which we just briefed. Anderson's there too, slouched again, this time against a bookshelf, Jesus, can the man not stand up? His face is etched with scorn and sarcasm, you'd think he'd learn, but no. As soon as Sherlock enters the room Anderson gets this look on his face. If we were in an American cop show he might say;

"It's payback time." But we're not, we're in an English police station and Anderson is not some hard bitten New York cop, he's from Wiltshire, so instead he drawls.

"Brought your boyfriend Sherlock?" Like some teenager. I see Sherlock's eyes close briefly and then he turns. Every sentence has him advancing on Anderson.

"What? Boyfriend? Oh, John, right. Yep. My boyfriend, my lover, my bitch, my fuck buddy!" Sherlock is grinning and Anderson is backed against the bookshelf. Sherlock turns to me , his look questioning. 'Good?" he asks silently. I shake my head a little. "Joking! Joking!" he exclaims and sits in Lestrade's seat, feet on the desk. He has huge feet. Someone brings him a coffee, since when did he get served coffee? He stirs it, licks the spoon eyeing me all the time. Jesus. It's like he's in charge.

Lestrade comes in just in time to see his chair occupied and Anderson looking like he might cry. He sighs and looks at me like I was supposed to do something. I look back with a blank face. Yeah right.

"So, pictures, pictures!" Sherlock demands loudly flicking his feet off the desk and taking an envelope from Donovan. He rips it open even though it isn't sealed and looks inside like it's the BAFTA nominations or something. He starts laying them out on the desk but then he runs out of room on the desk. He looks up at me with absolute glee. "There's so many of them!" I hear Anderson sigh as he shrugs himself from the bookcase and leaves the room huffily. Sherlock frowns after him but then he gets up and starts rearranging the pictures on the floor, the chairs. I see what he's doing, he's building them into the sets of the game. I would help but I don't remember the layout of the board. Lestrade waves to someone outside and they bring a large laminated piece of paper into the room. He unrolls it and tacks it to the largest space the office has, the window. Then he switches the light on. It's the board, the Monopoly board, the original one, the London game.

The bold pictures are so familiar now. The policeman with his whistle, the cab with its spare tyre on the back in the style of the thirties, the prisoner with his hands on the bars and the big red question marks. Take a chance, I think. I've taken quite a few recently.

My reverie is broken when Sherlock hands me some pictures to sort. They have small white labels on the side to tell me the locations and dates. I start to put them into the piles he has created, underneath pieces of A4 paper with the colours written on them by Donovan. When we have them all spread out, Sherlock stands on Lestrade's desk. He doesn't move anything out of the way of his huge feet and he kicks the rest of his coffee over too. He doesn't even look down.

His eyes dart this way and that, skimming and retrieving. He claps his hands together and brings them wide apart like he's pretending to be an aeroplane. Then back together again, eyes closed.

"So, there have been three full games since 1960." He announces as though we've all worked that out already, we haven't but no one corrects him. " And now they're on game four." He looks at us, we are blank. "As soon as they repeat any location the game starts again! I can't believe I'm having to say this, come on!" He says and I feel like we're back at school. All of us stare with guilty renewed interest at the pictures.

"Oh yeah," says Donovan, "look there's Piccadilly twice." She points, Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. He jumps down from the desk and then decides he likes it better up there and climbs back on. He picks up a ruler from a mug without a handle on the desk. He points it at Lestrade.

"All the murders from each pile are committed in the same way, yes?" Lestrade looks at his notes for several minutes, Sherlock slaps his own leg with the ruler, hard, catches my eye and beams. Christ. Lestrade looks up and nods. "But all the separate games have different MO? Yes?"

"Hang on," Lestrade mutters and check his papers. "Yep. Poison, strangulation, gunshot, stabbing, sexual assault before suffocation, all represented but only in certain murders for certain games."

"So?" Sherlock's ruler is pointing at me, his eyebrow arches.

"So... the murders are carried out by separate people each time. All the red murders are done by one person, the blue by another etc. Each player has a different style of killing?" He beams at me, I try not to be too smug.

"That's my boy! " He exclaims inappropriately. I wince. Then the ruler is pointed at Donovan. She looks scared and I don't blame her a bit. " What else?" Donovan looks at the pictures, screws up her mouth, she's thinking.

"There's no pattern to the victims," she says decisively. "Men, women, young, old, and four different races involved. Maybe the only pattern are the individual killers' preferences?" Sherlock nods slowly and I can see he's more impressed than he'll admit. Donovan looks at Lestrade and I and she looks pleased with herself. Like everyone she craves his approval, even though she seems to hate him. He has this effect on people.

"Not just that," he jumps down from the desk dramatically, papers go flying. "Each player has a murderer of their own, to do the work for them. They play the game and then dispatch their killer." His hands are under his chin, fingers pointing up.

"There's nothing here to tell you that," says Lestrade, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"This kind of set up is elaborate, it involves planning, continuity. It's about control, power, even the harmless board game is about owning the other players." He looks thoughtful and I wonder again about his childhood with Mycroft. "These people won't get their hands dirty, no, they'll send someone out to do that while they carry on with the intellectual fun of playing." He spins round and faces us all. "This is why we will catch them. Catch these murderers Lestrade and we catch the players of this deadly game."

"Oh it's that easy then?" Donovan is nearly as sarcastic as her boyfriend. Sherlock doesn't even turn to look at her as he leaves. He just calls over his shoulder.

"Check the DNA on the station victims first. Then check the murder techniques on known criminals. Murderers like this are not everywhere. John, I think we have some things to do." Now he does turn and he winks at me, making a cocky, clicking sound with his tongue. Lestrade and Donovan are looking at me again.

"You're not." Donovan says, her hand on her hip and her head cocked in Sherlock's direction.

"What?" I frown, feigning ignorance.

"You are!" she points and begins to giggle. "Oh my god! You are! With him! Oh, I can't go there." She shakes her head as though to rid it of a particularly unpleasant image.

"What Sherlock Holmes does in his spare time is nothing to do with us!" Lestrade sounds angry. "John I think you'd better go!"

I hurry after the quickly disappearing figure of Sherlock and catch him at the lift. He looks sideways at me, he doesn't smile. The lift doors open and I wonder what's wrong. The lift is empty and we get in. We start to speak at the same time.

"John, are we a secret?"

"Sherlock, is something wrong?" We stand for a moment digesting each other's words. I start to speak because he gestures with his hand towards me.

"Erm. A secret? Us? Ah. I don't know." I haven't thought about this. There's no reason I should hide this from anyone, after all it's the happiest I've been in a long time, maybe ever. But I have reacted badly when Sherlock's said or done anything which might indicate our changed relationship status to anyone else haven't I? All this is ticking through my head and I don't have an answer. I look up at him and I can see he's hurt. Oh god. He shrugs and is out of the doors as they open and I run after him. He's walking much faster than usual.

He hails a cab and he's inside as I reach the kerb. For one, gut wrenching, moment I think he isn't going to let me in as he reaches for the door but he swings it open and I climb in.

The first few minutes of the journey no one speaks. I look out of one window, he the other. I am thinking frantically. So why am I so reluctant to let anyone know? Would I care if Sherlock was a woman? No I wouldn't. Not at all. Then why? The most I can come up with is that I am worried that people will think I don't mean anything to him, that I'm his pet... boy or something. Suddenly the mental image of us in leather bondage gear, me on a lead, pops into my head. I smirk and Sherlock looks at me, face impassive. I look at that face and realise that I have hurt him. He thought he was a sociopath until recently and now I have hurt him. I'm a shit. The rest of the journey I think about how I'm going to sort it out.

He takes the stairs to the flat three at a time. Mrs Hudson doesn't come out to make innuendos and I am glad. When I get in the front door he's in the armchair and his head is back and his eyes are closed. I take off my jacket and kneel between his legs, my arms on his thighs. He looks down at me blue eyes cold. It's horrible and I want it to stop.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry." His head goes back and I think I'm being boring, predictable. I try again. "I don't want us to be a secret. I don't know why I reacted so badly when you said those things in front of Lestrade or anyone. I just..." he sighs, not looking at me.

"Yes I can imagine. Who would want people to know that they were having sex with me?" He's got it all wrong.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock can you stop being so... so... bloody...!" Bang my hand on the arm chair and he opens his eyes.

"Self deprecating, under confident, a martyr?" he offers.

"This! This is why I am worried about telling people!" I get up and start to pace, I realise I am acting like him. I stand still and try to lean casually on the mantelpiece. I don't think it works. "You're brilliant, amazing! What would Anderson think if he knew?" Sherlock opens his mouth but before he can speak I interrupt him. "I'll tell you! He'll think 'oh look at Sherlock with his pet soldier boy'!" The idea, my expression of it, is so ridiculous that one smirk from Sherlock and I am laughing. "Well, you know what I mean!"

"We're hardly the village people!" Sherlock stands up and crosses to me.

"I know, but I think I have an inferiority complex next to you." he nods.

"Well, everyone does." He shrugs. He's a pain in the arse. I start to turn away but he grabs my arm.

"John you are a soldier, a decorated soldier. You've stared death in the face, you've saved lives, and you're the bravest person I have ever met. You could have run away from this because it's not what you know but you haven't. Not at all." He holds my hand. Its kind and comforting and I realise he is trying because this doesn't come naturally to him. " Anderson, Donovan, all of them. They can think what they like about me. If you don't like how they might think about you then that's different."

He's right. Since when have I cared about what other people think? When did I start being so soft? I don't even like Donovan, Anderson. That train of thought gets me thinking.

"What's with you and Lestrade?" Sherlock frowns but it's a delayed reaction, he isn't the only one who's trained to interpret people. "Come on, what is it? " He sits back down and rubs his face with his long hands and sighs.

"Lestrade and I..." he trails off. My eyes go wide. What? I put my head forward, my expression says 'go on'. "Well, after a case once he came here to tell me that I had been right, of course. I'd been drinking, I offered him some. It turned out to be a rather bad judgement on my part. I'm not proud." He removes his hands and looks at me.

"You... you...?" I can't actually frame the sentence.

"Had sex with him?" He's out of his seat and pacing into the kitchen, he removes a bottle of wine and two glasses. I am dying with trepidation, finish the sentence man! "God no John. Ugh. Really. Until recently I hadn't really seen sex as an interesting proposition."

"So?" I prompt, taking the glass even though it's only two in the afternoon, it's already been a long day.

"He... well.. He misread the situation. Er... I had to tell him to go. Not good."

"Well, he's not happy about us." I sip my drink.

"Really? Missed that." Sherlock shrugs and drinks his wine, it's obvious he doesn't care. He gets out of his seat and comes back over to me. "I can't believe I have you to myself again and we're discussing Lestrade." He puts the drink down on the mantelpiece.

" I have another question." I sound serious, I put my drink down too. Sherlock looks at me, his face serious.

"Ask away." He says, his voice solemn.

"If sex hasn't been an interesting proposition until recently, and by that I hope you mean me," he is smiling slowly. "Then where the bloody hell did you learn this stuff?" I finish, my voice filled with exasperation and curiosity. He leans towards me and holds my chin with his hand. I can feel him breathing on my face. Even this small gesture makes me weak.

"Well John, as a younger man I liked to experiment." He kisses me slowly, wrapping his arm about my waist and pulling into the kiss. For a moment I let him and then I pull back.

"You experimented? On people? Lots of people?" I cock my head, this is interesting, I had never imagined. He wrinkles his nose, assessing numbers.

"A few, enough to be certain I was good at what I was doing." He smiles widely. I'll give him that one, he is good.

"Were these experiments what other people would call relationships Sherlock?" He's kissing my neck now and it's hard to concentrate. He pauses briefly.

"No. They were experiments, lessons, practise." He chuckles. " I wanted to know about sex and so I went out into the world and found out." He's so matter of fact but his lips are doing things to me and it's getting hard to focus. Pardon the pun. " Don't worry John, I know what I'm doing." He laughs again, darkly. He's not lying.

"Yes I know you do." I mumble as I pull him back to my face and kiss him back in earnest. There must be something about my new decision for confidence, some change that his words have wrought over me because his eyes are different when I kiss him. I realise for the first time that I have my own inner cocky bastard and, if this was a woman, she would already know that by now. Something about Sherlock has put me on the back foot from the start. Maybe it's the way I realised how I felt? Maybe it's because he's the first man I've had anything sexual with? Maybe it's because he's a fucking genius who knows my phone is going to ring...now. And it does.

He takes it out of his pocket, how come he still has it? And hands it to me smiling wryly. It rings. That's not fair, I was just getting into the snogging, planning my own assault on certain areas of Mr. Holmes. I look at the phone, Harry, double damn.

"Hi," I fall back in the armchair and shrug in a resigned fashion. It's not all that comfortable sitting here with a half hard on and I adjust myself and Sherlock chuckles and he sits down opposite me. Then he leaps up and tops up our glasses. Harry is talking and I try to pay attention.

"John? John. Where've you been? You were getting better at phoning and then nothing for weeks? What've you been up to? How're you doing? You know I worry." I sigh, how many questions did she just ask? Sherlock is still smirking. Great.

"I'm fine Harry, fine. Fine." Useless but I want to get off the phone and being incommunicative might work. She sighs and tuts. In his chair Sherlock slumps back, his eyes on mine and his hands, Jesus, his hands start to unbutton his jacket at the waist and then his shirt. What the hell is he doing?

"Well, you could just send a text." Harry is annoyed, she always wants me to spill the beans, like she's always thinking that we have a different relationship, a closer one. We don't. Never mind that, across from me Sherlock is rubbing his nipple through his t shirt with the bottom of his wine glass. He's grinning more widely now and he's panting a little. He looks so sexy like that and he bloody knows it. Is it the action of the smooth glass or the fact he knows all I can do is watch?

"Anyway, it's not what I rang about." Her voice is sharp now, business like, oh here we go, I sigh but then the noise sticks in my throat because Sherlock has put down his wine glass and is unbuttoning his trousers. I gulp my drink and try, try desperately to listen to Harry, she waffling on about meeting some friend of mine in town... blah blah. Yes, yes, woman. Look Harry, I want to say, look, across from me is an incredibly gorgeous creature who has just begun to masturbate himself in front of me. He looks like he's really enjoying it and I'd like to get over there as soon as possible and help him out. Now could you just piss off? But I don't. I just ogle and make noises which I hope aren't too obvious.

Sherlock's hands are teasing over his hard cock. His eyes only leave my face to look down at what he is doing and then they are back on me. He bites his lip and hisses, rubbing over the tip with his thumb, the way I was doing last night imagining his tongue. Oh god. I have a raging erection and my sister is jabbering in my ear. What is she saying? For a split second I seriously consider just putting the phone down, but I'm supposed to be making an effort. Sherlock's hips begin to move now, it's not just his hands. He has slid down in his chair and I can see that, what started as a game, has him now gripped with both hands. Literally. I shift in my seat.

"So what about Wednesday night then?" Harry is asking in my ear, from her tone I'm guessing she has already asked once and had no reply. What? Wednesday night? Oh god, I have absolutely no idea what she is asking but I need to get off this phone. Now. Sherlock is bucking and moaning now, still watching me. He mouths across the room.

"All yours John. I'm thinking about you." That does it. I haven't got a fucking clue what Harry is asking but I agree anyway.

"Wednesday? Lovely. What time?" Get off the fucking phone woman! She sounds taken aback.

"Right, Wednesday then, about eightish, you bring your new flat mate and I'll bring Sarah." Sarah? Who is... oh never mind I really couldn't care less right now. Sherlock slows his movements very deliberately. I point at the sofa, up against the wall, under the yellow smiley face and the gunshot holes. Don't ask. He frowns, still panting. More firmly I point again. His eyebrows rise like he's saying 'what? Are you bossing me about now?' I nod. Grin. Point again. He stands up, walks over the coffee table, what is it with him and furniture? He sheds his trousers, shorts and socks as he walks and lies dutifully on the sofa.

"Ok right. See you there bye, Harry." I hang up even though she is mid sentence, whatever. I cross the room quickly, picking up the lube on the way to the sofa. Sherlock's eyes go wide and he claps his hands and winks. Good god.

I kiss him voraciously, batting his hands away from his erection and replacing them with my own. My mouth is on his ear and I can feel what a mess I am making of him. I smile.

"That. Was. Not. Fair." Each word is a flick of my wrist, he is shaking now. "Sherlock I really, really want to fuck you now." He stops, cocks his head, looks at me enquiringly. His expression says 'here now? In the front room? It's two twenty seven in the afternoon.' you know how he is with precision. I get up from the sofa and he looks like he's going to follow me but I shake my head. I lock the door, it's bad enough that Mrs. Hudson probably has a glass to the wall without her popping in for a show. I push him back from his half sitting position and I kiss his neck.

"Yep Sherlock. Right now, here on the sofa. I'm not using a condom." His eyebrows go up again and he grins. "I know I am checked out and you know that I would be too, right?" He nods like he's loving following someone's deductions for once. I continue "and you've had some...experience and I know how much you like yourself so you're unlikely not to have checked yourself out. Recently. Am I right?" He nods and closes his eyes. He's more turned on by my logic than anything else I think. God I have a live one here. "So, therefore, " I use one of his favourite words, "I can fuck you bareback, as we like to say in the army, with no dire consequences apart from you will feel very inch of me and I you. " He lets out a long breath and I almost just jump him there. He's half sitting and I briefly wonder how I will get him where I want him but I needn't bother. His hands go to my trouser zip and he undresses me, kissing the parts he exposes and running his long tongue over my now, painfully hard cock. I shudder and feel the moisture from his tongue cooling on my hot skin, the sensation is incredible. I hold his hair and he moans into my flesh. The vibration does some amazing things to me, oh god, we'd better get on with this. The impromptu show he gave me while I was on the phone and now the sight of Sherlock, his arms wrapped around me, swallowing me whole is going to become way too much, way too soon. I gently push him away.

He sits back on the sofa, long legs out, cock hard as a broom handle. Jesus he is so beautiful. Before the nagging voice can return I remember all the things he's said or half said, all the things he's done to prove how much he thinks of me and I tell the voice to shut the fuck up again. This time it seems to listen. I feel butterflies as I nudge his shoulder.

"Turn over." I whisper, he moans and lies down on the sofa, his face turned sideways and his pale smooth back towards me. I remember that I have invaded Afghanistan, not alone admittedly but still. That I am not some teenage virgin, I have some experiences of my own here. This time am doing this myself, not some lust clouded fogged up version of me, although I am incredibly turned on and yes, I have been thinking about how tight he was, how fantastic he felt moving with me, this time I am in control. I hold his hips and pull them up until he is kneeling, legs open and exposed to me. He is panting now and I know he wants this as much as I do. He moves onto his elbows, his dark hair hangs down and I can see his face and he is biting that full top lip. God.

I kneel behind him and lube up my hand. I trail it down his lower coccyx and bring my hand around to cup him, slicking my thumb over his hot, hard flesh. He bucks forward and says my name. One day I'll come just from him doing that, I think. I push the head of my cock against him without using my fingers this time. I know more now and I remember I have to get past that awkward part, that almost bend in his body. I go slowly and my hands on his erection follows suit. He doesn't want slow, he pushes back hard, there is a slip and a slide and I am in him all the way. For a moment or two we are still, honestly I don't think I could do anything else, he feels just brilliant. He shifts a knee, his muscles tighten around me and relax and I have to put a hand on his back to steady myself.

"This ok?" I whisper, he turns his head his face is dark with lust, I've never seen him quite so involved until those last moments before he comes but now he is so open, so vulnerable to me. This isn't going to last long at this rate.

"This is perfect." He smiles and pushes back. I take the hint and soon I am moving less slowly, pulling right back and then thrusting back in, flicking my hips forward, he seems to like it, he is shuddering and panting. The pressure, the incredible friction on my cock, the picture of him kneeling, shuddering and taking all of me is getting too much to bear. He must be feeling the same way.

"Faster John, oh, god, just fuck me John." There we go, any control I had is gone. I grab his hips and start to give him what he asked me for. Soon the pleasure is becoming unbearable, I need more, want more. I let go of his hips and with one hand I grab his hair and pull him back towards me and with the other I stroke his cock. The tension in my body has him taut and shivering. We are both mumbling now, our breath hard and our words incohesive. I feel him tighten even more, where I thought it was impossible and he's coming. And then I am too. Part of me registers this time I'm coming inside him, not the condom and the buzz just gets better.

He slumps down on the sofa and I have to move fast not to slide out of him too quickly. I worry that it might hurt him. Carefully I inch free, more difficult now as he is lying prone and his body is closing itself up. I don't look down at myself, is there a mess? I don't want to ruin the moment but without turning he passes me a towel from the floor. I wipe myself over and decide a shower will sort me out. I lie next to him, the sofa is barely wide enough. He turns to face me.

"Hello," he holds out his hand awkwardly in the cramped space between us." My name's Sherlock Holmes, I don't think we've met." I laugh and shake the proffered hand. He adds. "But I think I like you a lot."

"Thanks," I grin, "that was ok then?" He pretends to ponder, hands under his chin like he does when he's thinking.

"Ah. Yes. Yes. That was ok. " He makes the understatement obvious and it becomes a compliment.

"I didn't, erm, hurt you?" he chuckles.

"No. No. Quite the contrary in fact." He rubs the back of his head ruefully. "Hair pulling, I hadn't considered that one. Very nice." He kisses me and for a moment I think he's going to rush off and write it in some sex tips book he as somewhere but he seems to be filing it to memory. We lie there, uncomfortable but happy for a few minutes. Then I need to use the bathroom. When I come back Sherlock is carrying linen into my room. Bloody hell he's not making the bed is he?

Of course he's not.

"There you go," he says leaving the room, still only in his shirt and t shirt. "I'll get more wine, you make the bed and then you can tell me about Harry's dinner party on Wednesday." I sigh, grin and pick up the sheets. Hang on, Harry's dinner party? Shit.

So, if you enjoyed this, if it made you laugh, got you thinking or turned you on please take a moment to review and let me know what work you. And what didn't. Honestly the feedback I have got on this fic has made me a better writer and made it so much more fun!

Ok, I have some people I really need to thank, PrincessNala, Darmed, Tasty- Kate and 2cajuman2, you have been marvellous! You have made me smile so much in the last few days and I am so grateful for your consideration, support, time and feedback. Love you guys.


	6. Players

We're at the end of the bottle of wine and I'm just going to get a beer, it's not responsible drinking I know but I don't care. I have agreed for Sherlock to meet my sister. And, possibly more worryingly my sister to meet Sherlock. Christ.

I don't remember much of the conversation so god only knows how Sherlock does, yeah, enormous intellect, and he says I agreed eight o'clock at Harry's house and I was bringing him along. I pop the lid of the bottle and go back to the bedroom. Sherlock is lounging in that awful blue silk dressing gown, he's got the laptop, my laptop, and he's on the internet. I'm hoping it's not a gay sex tips website. He doesn't need them. He looks like something out of a modern day Brideshead Revisited. Sometimes he is so bloody public school it's funny. He's just drained his glass and he raises his eyebrows at the beer, I raise mine in challenge and he smiles and says nothing.

"So, who else is going to be at this dinner party?" I ask him sitting down on the bed next to him. He doesn't answer, I wait a moment, he's obviously preoccupied. I glance at the website he is looking at. It's a history of the Bank of England. He's so engrossed that I think I'll have a shower. I have another swig of beer and head to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later and he's still reading the screen but something is different now. His expression is still one of utter concentration but now there's something else too, an extra gleam in his eye maybe.

"What have you found?" I ask, picking up the beer and drinking before I put on clean clothes. He looks up at me as though he has only just noticed I am here, thanks. Then he eyes the towel around my waist. Then he's back to my face grinning like a lunatic.

"I am a genius." He says and lies back on the bed. He's still only wearing the dressing gown and it's a bit distracting. I nod, yes I know that Sherlock. "Do you want to know how I am a genius, this particular time?"He leaps up and flings the laptop at me. It's a history of the Bank of England. I shrug. And? "John, John, John! You really don't see it do you?" I look closer; on the top of the page is a picture of three men, all wearing top hats and smart suits. The picture is black and white and they all look very well bred. Still nothing to me I'm afraid. I look at the names of the men, Montagu Norman, Sir Albert Livsey and sir Gerald Fredericks. Still, nothing. I shake my head.

Sherlock sighs and taps the picture, at first I think he is tapping a face but then I see his tapping the man's hat. It's exasperating to be this far behind. He takes the laptop away in disgust and flicks to another tab on the browser. It's another picture, black and white again and this time it's of one man, he's in his thirties I'd guess and he's standing proudly in what appears to be a shipbuilding dock. There's nothing unusual about him. His suit is sharp and his hand is casually in one pocket. He's smoking a pipe. God I feel stupid, I'm hoping the name will help. George Bradley-Ewell. When it's obvious I am none the wiser Sherlock is beside himself. He takes the beer from me and drinks the rest of the bottle. I am shocked; I've never seen him drink beer. He practically assaults the computer showing me the next tab. Another picture, black and white of a shooting party. From the outfits it appears to be in the Scottish Highlands. One man to the side of the group is actually wearing a kilt. This is where Sherlock's finger is tapping.

"Look, I'm sorry to be so dense but I really don't get it Sherlock." He looks at me and, for a moment, I wonder if it's lonely in there. I think the only person I've met with even an ounce of his brains is Mycroft and they seem to hate each other. Sherlock can't share this with anyone. He sits back on the bed and I follow him.

"Sir Gerald Fredericks, one of the big men at the bank of England 1930-1945, George Bradley -Ewell, later KBE, British dockyard owner, builder of warships for World War I and Lord Aberfeldy of Fife one of the richest landowners in Scotland." He looks at me and I just nod. He rolls his eyes and flicks to another tab. It's a different picture this time, ten men stand together all wearing some weird costume that looks like a cross between a priest's chasuble and the Ku Klux Klan. The caption beneath reads 'The Honourable Brotherhood of Charlemagne'. I look at it for a second and recognise some faces. I point to Sir Gerald, Sir George and Lord Aberfeldy. Sherlock nods. "The top hat," he flicks back to the first tab, there is Sir Gerald and yes, he is wearing a top hat. "The battleship," there is Sir George in the dockyard...

"And the Scottie dog!" I practically shout. Sherlock smiles at me with relief. "Isn't this a bit...tenuous?" I ask nervously. He frowns thoughtfully and bites his bottom lip.

"It just seems far too much of a coincidence. They're all at the height of their power at the right time and this," he points to the picture of them in the odd robes," is an exclusive gentlemen's gaming club. Charlemagne was credited with inventing chess though that's very unlikely as there was something like chess in India well before he came to power..." He realises he is rambling and his mouth shuts like a trap. Then he says, "Anyway they met at very expensive hotels in London every year and played games. It was about skill and guile. And money" he adds.

"So, who are these other people? The shoe and the wheelbarrow?" I ask laughing. Sherlock is serious now.

"I don't know, I can't find them anywhere. But this might be where it started John." He frowns and then smiles and I can tell he's delighted with the puzzle.

"But it can't still be them can it? They'd be dead by now or ancient." A couple of men on the Brotherhood picture are at least seventy when the picture was taken.

"No, it must be their successors but which ones? In their businesses? It can't be, the Bank of England was nationalised in 1946 so no one is really Sir Gerald's heir." Sherlock's hands are under his chin like he's praying for the answer. "In the Brotherhood?" He's not asking me but I answer anyway.

"Maybe, but how do we find that out? Aren't these sort of clubs very private, all old school tie and British Empire? How do we find out about anything like that?" Before I even really finish my breath Sherlock looks at me. He looks absolutely gutted.

"Mycroft." He says and goes out of the room. I hear the fridge door open and two more beers being opened. Oh dear.

We have no beer left. We are still sitting on my bed and Sherlock has just suggested I go out to collect a Chinese takeaway. He's claiming he missed the last one. I point out that he left it to go cold while he stared at crime scene pictures but he's not having it, sometimes his brilliant logic is definitely skewed his way. I think he's going to phone Mycroft and he doesn't want me here, so I say I'll go.

Coat and scarf on I go out into the chilly street. It's getting dark now but the Chinese is only a short walk away. Mrs Hudson is standing with a friend waiting for taxi at the kerb. She gives me a big grin.

"John, John, come here love. I want you to meet my friend Clara." She's pushing a woman forward. She's much younger than Mrs. Hudson by her dress but as she comes into the street lamp I am astonished. It's Clara, Clara for god's sake. Harry's ex. She looks at me open mouthed.

"John! Oh my god John! How are you? How do you know...?" Mrs. Hudson is looking at us as Clara hugs me tightly and then pushes me away so she can look at me. "You look so well! Much better than... "I know what she's going to say, better than Harry's birthday party. The party that ended when Clara walked out, well not actually walking; I gave her a lift to her parents'. Harry still hasn't forgiven me but then Harry was being a drunk and an arse and she deserved it. Clara didn't.

"Yeah. Life's good Clara, bloody hell it's good to see you. Are you living around here?" Mrs. Hudson chimes in.

"Yes John this is Clara, remember I told you about Clara next door? We met at my reading club, she's new to the area and we got chatting afterwards and I realised she was our new neighbour." She turns to Clara. "John's the one who you thought had got a dog." She grins knowingly. "But he and Sherlock haven't got a dog." She adds pointedly. I watch the cogs turn in Clara's head.

"Oh." she says, "oh. Right. Yes. The dog, but no dog?" She looks at me hoping I can make this go away. I can't of course.

"Yes, no dog." I admit. "Just me and..." I look up to the window of the flat. Sherlock is standing there, still in the dressing gown but, thank god, he's put some trousers on. He waves. I wave back. It's pathetic. "Him," I point. It's a good job it's getting too dark to see my blushing. But then I remember my new resolution. I stiffen my sinews and go for it.

"Yes, we're...er... together." Clara's eyebrows raise and Mrs. Hudson, god bless her, beams and pats my arm like she's proud of me. I nod slowly, uncertain where to go now.

"Well you sound like you're having fun!" Clara giggles and I laugh partly because she's funny and partly with relief. "Hey what happened to that girl you were seeing?"

"Sarah?" I ask and something changes in Clara's face, I don't register this until later but it definitely changes. "Well, you know...busy with work, with Sherlock and well... it just didn't happen. She stopped phoning, I stopped caring." Clara nods but it seems she's desperate to get away now.

"And Harry?" she asks in a quiet voice.

"Not seen her recently but I'm going to her house for dinner the night after next. We both are." and I point up to the flat.

"She's with someone new." Clara is clearly upset and I am surprised, I thought she was decided against going back to Harry, hadn't she started the divorce?

"Hmm." I nod, uncomfortable now. We are saved by a banging noise. We all look up, it's Sherlock and he's banging on the window. He's holding up a piece of paper with something written on it but I can't read it from here. Clara walks out into the road to see it better, she laughs.

"It says 'John, buy more beer and hurry up I'm starving!' Oooh under the thumb there, John." She is giggling and so is Mrs. Hudson.

"Or that's what we've heard anyway! Those walls are paper thin, shocking!" Mrs. Hudson cannot contain her glee. I shake my head.

"When you ladies have finished ripping my dignity to pieces I'll be off." I smile. Clara hugs me and she still looks sad.

"Good luck on Wednesday." She says and before I have chance to think about what she has said the cab comes and they are gone.

When I come back from the Chinese there is a god awful banging from the front room. Christ, I think, he's got my revolver again and I run up the stairs, wincing slightly at my complaining muscles. I'm getting soft; I'll have to get down to the gym.

It's not the gun, Sherlock has a golf club and he is hitting something on the living room floor as hard as he can. It is a sofa cushion, one of the big ones and on it is taped a piece of paper. When I can get near enough, and still avoid the flailing half man, half windmill that is Sherlock, I realise there is a face drawn on the paper. Even through the holes made by the force of the golf club I can tell it's meant to be Mycroft, a bit chubbier than he actually is in the flesh. Sherlock looks up from butchering the upholstery; his face is sweating with the effort, hair plastered to his head and his bare chest shiny. I hate to say it but he looks good.

"So, conversation with Mycroft went well then?"

"He's a fucking pompous, self important, obnoxious, patronising...walrus!" Walrus? Each insult is punctuated by Sherlock whacking the cushion with all his might, he swings right from his shoulder like a pro. Apart from the alarming level of violence it's quite a show. I have no idea how to get him out of this so I go for humour.

"Ooh put that down," I mince, "you're making me hard." He stops and drops the club instantly.

"Really?" I realise I am bleeding in the shark tank. His stare is what I imagine snakes use on their prey. I shake the takeaway bag at him like a talisman.

"Well, a bit yeah, but there's food here, Sherlock." Really it's like trying to train a Great White to jump through those hoops like a dolphin. He looks at the bag hungrily but then he looks at me and he's starving. Oh god. Maybe it's adrenaline. I get to the kitchen and grab some plates. He opens the bag and starts to poke around in the tubs, his long fingers slippery from the noodles and sauces. He flips a handful into his mouth and smiles as he sucks it up. I grimace.

"Beer?" he asks like a brainiac caveman. I wave a cardboard carrier of six beers. He opens the fridge and I try not to see what's in there. He moves something that makes a hideous squelching sound and pops the beer in. Then he puts the oven on. I am open mouthed; one, he claimed he didn't know how to work the oven, like how the Solar System works it wasn't 'important' enough for him and two, why do we need the oven on? Then he takes the food in its metal trays and puts them in the oven. What? And then he crosses the room to me. Ok.

I let him grab my coat and pull me into him. He kisses me and it's instantly a hundred degrees hotter in the flat. Even though his hands are everywhere and it feels great, I realise that he probably needs a release more than I do. So I run my fingers down his bare chest, he's sticky and that's just fine, and down over the thin material of his pyjama bottoms, those hideous pale blue ones actually. They're coming off, I think. He's very hard, the fabric is taut over him and I pull it tighter, remembering how good this felt when a girl once did it to me. He shuts his eyes and groans in the back of his throat. I know I've said before how beautiful he is and I am biased but still, Christ.

I tease my fingers over him and I can just tell now that he's going to get impatient soon. His eyelids are twitching with the effort of staying still and his breathing is shallow. I push him back against the counter top, only inches from where this all began with the note in the tea jar and I drop to my knees. This time I am eager to taste him, to make him feel as good as I know this does. I don't mess about; I hold him one hand and slide my mouth down over the tip of his cock. I taste his sweat, that sandalwood smell and Sherlock. Keeping just the tip in my mouth I use my hands to bring him nearer. His hands are out on the kitchen surface and he leans his hips forward, into me. I take my mouth off him and he looks down, his eyes are focussed and sharp.

I lick my fingers and he hisses through his teeth. I swallow as much as I can, knowing he's still watching and I follow my lips with my hands. Learning from him, I cup his balls and tug gently. I am rewarded with a moan and a pushing forward of his hips. I steady myself against him with my shoulder. Then I reach under him, nudging his legs apart, and slowly, very carefully I put my fingertip inside him. He groans and shifts his weight so I can gain better access. Two fingers, three fingers and he's pushing back against me and his cock towards me. I match the rhythm of the fingers, to my hand on his balls and my mouth, realising to my surprise that I can take more of him that I had thought.

His body stiffens, I feel his inner muscles tighten around me, feel his ball sac tighten and his cock twitch. He pushes my head down, I gag briefly but carry on and am rewarded with a long shuddering cry and he floods my mouth. After a second or two, his breathing steadies and I stand up, he opens his eyes.

"Thank you." he says and kisses me.

"You don't have to thank me," I tell him, "I enjoyed it." He smiles broadly.

"Excellent." He grins. I laugh. "Now, wash your hands before dinner!" He shakes his head in mock reproof.

"Yes Nanny," I tease. I bet he had a Nanny.

We sit on the sofa, which will never be the same again, and eat our Chinese and drink our beer. Sherlock puts the telly on and starts shouting at some people who think they can dance, allegedly. For a few minutes we are like any other two flatmates in London. Drinking beer, eating takeaway and watching crap television.

"Sherlock." He nods, not looking up from his food. "I told Mrs. Hudson we're together." He nods again.

"Ok." He says around his chopsticks. "Good, she can stop listening now."

"What?" He turns to me and tips his bottle to his mouth. I savour the moment of him drinking beer like an ordinary bloke.

"When I got up to get the bed sheets this afternoon, after..." he points to the sofa we are sitting on and waggles an eyebrow. "I heard a noise outside. She was outside the front door. I could hear her breathing." I shake my head. Is there no privacy around here? We eat in silence apart from Sherlock shouting at the idiots who are now 'on ice'.

"Mycroft says he can't possibly help and that people in clubs like that have influence so they don't have to answer to people like me. bastard." He spits the last word out with more venom that I have heard from him.

"Do you think he won't help us then?"

"I told him a little about the case, he's interested now. We'll see, I'm not asking him again." I nod. The TV show ends and a new one begins, oh god, it's a murder mystery set in Somerset. What do we pay our licence fee for again? Sherlock sits up, he loves these, they're like some kind of vicious catharsis for him.

"Clara next door? The one who thought we had a dog? Mrs Hudson's friend?" He looks at me, impatient; I am talking over the background to the first murder. I don't know why he bothers; he's always worked it out by the credits. "It's Clara, Harry's ex, the one who bought the mobile phone." I end, raising my eyebrows. I'm still feeling surprised but then my life has been surprising recently. Sherlock goes back to his middle aged, soft focus detective who drives a BMW down leafy lanes. He glances sideways to me.

"Oh, that's who's going to be at Harry's dinner party. Her new girlfriend, Sarah. It's going to be like a double date. Super!" He claps his hands fakes a happy grin. I laugh. Hang on, Sarah? I remember Clara's face in the yellow streetlight and how she looked when I told her the name of the girl I'd been seeing. Not again Harry. Jesus, not again.

There wasn't going to be any sex in the chapter but then there was! Sorry if anyone's disappointed. As per usual would be over the moon if you drop me a review and let me know what you liked, laughed at, lusted over, loathed.

Hugs to my friends PrincessNala,Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate and 2cajuman2 you make my day when you PM and review me. Your help has been utterly invaluable! I love you lots.

Big kisses to OHOB for being a doll and Reg for putting up with all the time I should be preparing to move house and I'm on here making Sherlock and John do bad things together!


	7. Harry's Story

I spend the morning tidying. Someone's got to do it and it's not going to be him. He frowns at me as I Hoover around him, I feel like his wife, mind you I was doing the house work before anything else happened wasn't I?

Sherlock's pouring over both laptops, he has fished his out of a corner of his room and set them both up and is flicking from one screen to the other. By the time I've done the front room, bathroom and am about to start on the kitchen he's found two more players.

"William Clerk and Sir Joshua James," he points at the two really old guys on the Brotherhood picture. He is smiling and obviously pleased with himself.

"Clerk? The shoe people? Oh right, of course. Who's the other chap?" Sherlock looks up at me and I realise this is one of those pieces of information which he thinks is important and I don't.

"What? You don't know Joshua James? He was a really famous race horse owner. Man about town, bit of a playboy in his time. Later we all found out he was spying for the enemy in WWI. Utter bastard but utterly brilliant all the same." There is grudging respect in his voice. I think I've vaguely heard of him and I say so. "So that's two more, doesn't help me much with the current players though." He bangs the arm of the chair. "Damn Mycroft! I really hoped he'd help. Argh!" Sherlock is very frustrated hope he doesn't start with the golf club again. I just tidied. I say so. Sherlock rolls his eyes and then looks at me more closely.

"John? Are you ok?" I sigh and sit down, cloth and cleaning fluid still in my hand. No I am not ok. Not at all.

"Not really Sherlock. I'm worrying about tonight." He frowns and I think he's forgotten about dinner with Harry, I stop at thinking about the other person who will be there. Then he nods once. He's not going to push the question and I love that about him, he can be the most inquisitive person ever but he appreciates boundaries. "I need to talk to you about Harry." He puts down both computers, what a compliment. He sits back in the chair, folds his arms and nods for me to go on. I know he's probably worked it all out and I appreciate that he's letting me tell the story.

"We used to get on so well when we were kids you know, did everything together. She's older than me by one year, mum and dad wanted the baby making out of the way I guess." I smirk and Sherlock smiles seriously, I know he's dying to get to his case and the fact that he is listening so intently is a measure of the esteem in which he holds me, I file it away for insecure moments. "But then when we got to secondary school people started to compare us, you know John's much better at biology than Harriet, Harriet's much sportier than John, that sort of crap, you know." He nods again and I wonder if this sounds like his childhood too. "I didn't care but it really got to Harry, we started to drift apart, she was deliberately distancing herself from me, from the competition. When I was started my A levels she came out. No one was surprised, mum and dad were really supportive but it wasn't good enough for Harry. I don't know," I sniff and rub my hands in my hair, "maybe she wanted a fuss, to feel different? Anyway she became more and more removed. We both went to university, me to London, her to Edinburgh. We got together for a few weekends, you know, went clubbing, drank too much." I look at him, has he ever been clubbing? I can't imagine it but after what he's said about his sexual experimenting you never know eh? He frowns and I realise I have stopped speaking.

"So we both study medicine, I go into the army, she took the more conventional route, she wanted to be a consultant. I didn't think of it at the time but maybe she needed to be something more than I was. That didn't go well for her at first, she had problems with some of her work colleagues, they found her too intense, too focussed on the job, even more than they were. "I look at Sherlock; I could be describing him couldn't I? The fact has not escaped him, obviously, he shrugs.

"And mum and dad, well everyone, they kept going on about how I was out there, saving brave soldier's lives, fighting for Queen and country. I think it infuriated her, she couldn't better me and I wasn't trying. The army was a natural choice for me after medical school, I was bored in a town practice, I didn't do it to get one up on her." Do I sound defensive? I suppose I am after all this time.

"I was back on leave when I met Clara. She was funny and attractive and it was obvious she liked me. Before I was posted back we went out, I suppose you could call them dates, I really liked her Sherlock." I look at him, his face is serious and he looks annoyed, I pause, is he bored? He picks up on this and shakes his head a little.

"I'm listening John, carry on." I sigh; I haven't really said this to anyone.

"We wrote, emailed and I spoke to her on the phone for a while. She seemed as keen as I was. I don't know Sherlock, I got involved, more than I meant to. It's weird being out there, things which would be trivial at home, new relationships, things like that, get blown out of proportion. You start to attach more significance to them you would if you weren't being shot at, shooting people." My voice has trailed off. Sherlock sits forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers under his chin. It spurs me on. "Anyway, I built Clara into something, my answer, my thing to live for. It wasn't fair, she hadn't made any big commitments, we'd kissed a bit but we'd not even gone any further. In my head she was my future wife, the reason to get out of this hell and get home." As I say these words I realise I have done far more with Sherlock than kiss, I have just described a level of commitment which I don't know if we have together. His face hasn't changed. I stand up and pace to the kitchen, put the kettle on, distract myself from the next bit of the story, the hard part. He doesn't speak while we wait for the kettle.

I hand him his tea and he smiles his thanks, then he puts it on the floor, his manner telling me he wants me to keep on talking.

"So when the letters, the phone calls, the texts, the emails stopped coming... well it hit me harder than it should have done I suppose. I was frantic for weeks, obsessed. I phoned home, even phoned Harry but no one had seen her. Or at least that's what they said. I suppose now they were trying not to upset me but I still think they should have told me." I sip my tea, trying to regain some composure. "Then there was the accident, mum and dad didn't survive, Harry was ok but in hospital. I got compassionate leave, came home, organised the funeral and on my first visit to Harry, there was Clara, with Harry." Look at my feet, lips tightly pursed because this still hurts. Hurts like a bastard. I sit up, blowing out a long breath.

"So, that was it. They'd met in a pub, Harry was with some of our mutual friends who recognised Clara as this girl I'd been going on about and invited her over." Another breath, come on John. "At first I thought that it was just a coincidence that Harry had gone for Clara, that it was nature, attraction but..."

"But then Harry started to say things when she'd been drinking." Sherlock's voice is a shock, he's been quiet for so long. "Hurtful things, intimate things. " He mimics and he sounds bitter and cruel and just like Harry did that night outside the pub. "What good is an imaginary, brilliant soldier boyfriend when she can have a real, brilliant girlfriend who can take her to bed and make her come, kiss her in the morning, show off to her friends?" I gawp at him, it's not word for word but some if it is dead on, verbatim, especially about the sex. I nod.

"I went back to Afghan, next thing I heard they're having a civil partnership, I'm invited. Harry plans it for when I'm on leave, I'm her only family she says in her letter, can't we make it right? But the whole thing, the whole bloody Elton John fiasco is aimed at me." Maybe it wasn't, but it felt it was, felt like a slap in the face, a deliberate, cruel insult. "I went back, cut myself off. Didn't speak or hear from them for a year maybe? Then I got a letter from Clara, she was worried about Harry's drinking, she was getting abusive, not physically but emotionally, mentally. After the leg, the kidnapping." I stop, have I told him about the kidnapping? The days as a hostage, torture, not knowing if I will ever see anyone again? I can't remember, it happens sometimes, the world just shrinks to a narrow focus and I can't remember. PTSD the doctors called it. I carry on. "I was sent home. It was Harry's birthday party, Clara begged me to come. Things got heated; they always do when Harry's been drinking. There was a row, Harry went to slap Clara, said some hurtful things, really nasty. I stood between them, Harry hit me...I hit Harry." I look up still ashamed even now, a year on. Sherlock nods.

"Perfectly rational reaction, considering." He says clearly, letting me know it's ok.

"Thanks." I whisper, then sigh. "Anyway I drove Clara to her parents' house and she didn't go back. They're divorced now." I purse my lips again and remember my tea. It's getting cold so I take a long drink, clear my head. Maybe I shouldn't be talking about this when we're going to go over there, see Harry and...Sarah. Hmm. "Last night when I told Clara who I'd been seeing, not you, Sarah," I add as his eyebrows rise. "She looked really sad, upset. And then you mentioned Harry's new girlfriend's name."

"Sarah." Sherlock sighs and rubs his chin with his hands. There is silence and I can tell he is thinking. I don't know what to say, what he's going to say. Harry and I sound like we're some awful soap opera, I hate it. He's probably thinking we're freaks, the sort of awful dramatic family he avoids like the plague and shouts at on the telly. When he speaks it isn't what I thought he would say.

"So, how do you want to deal with this bitch of a sister then?" His eyebrows are raised and he sits back in the chair, drinks his tea. When he finishes drinking his mouth is a thin line.

I'm just out of the shower, towelling my hair dry and deciding what to wear. Yes, boys do it too. After all this is a big deal. Even though I'm not competing with Harry she still brings out that side of me, I can't help it. And Sarah's going to be there. You know that thing right, where you're not interested in them anymore but you still care what they think about you? Yeah, it's like that. I wander into the front room and Sherlock's on the laptops again. That doesn't surprise me. What does however is how he is dressed. The suit is a sharper, more expensive version of his usual charcoal grey. The cut is immaculate; you can tell from the other side of the room that it's cost a fortune. As I cross the floor I can see that the material is slightly shiny, not gaudy but there is sheen, once again I am brought to mind of a shark. His shirt is the same grey but the material is silk I think, the texture, matt and sleek, compliments the suit perfectly. His tie is black. He's wearing a tie. I've never seen him in a tie. He's even brushed that mad curly hair. He looks amazing, like a slightly sinister, sexy lawyer or something. I know have a serious sartorial problem.

I go back into my room and there's a paper bag on the bed. It wasn't there before. It's a silvery grey and from a very expensive shop. When I look inside there are some dark grey jeans and a black, thin knit jumper inside. The jumper feels heavy, silky. The jeans are hand stitched. They're in my size. I pick them up and go back to Sherlock.

"Er. What's this?" I ask, then, thinking that sounded rude I try to amend, "where are these from?" He looks up, face impassive.

"Thought you might want smarten up for tonight. Ordered those. Will they do?" I look back at the items in my hand; they are a sort of chic, urban version of what I wear. He bought them for me. Bloody hell.

"Yeah. Yeah. Great. Lovely. Erm... thanks Sherlock." I mutter, oh I'm so good with this aren't I?

I get changed and look at myself. The John Watson who looks back at me from the mirror is smooth, adult, sophisticated. I'd better put something on my hair I think. My only tub of hair wax, I've had it since 2003, is still in a box under the bed. I fish it out and poke some into my short hair. I can't see the difference but I know it's there. Then I go back to the front room.

"You've done something to your hair." Sherlock glances from the laptop screens and then back. "It looks nice." Right, thanks. He slaps down the lids and rubs his hands together. "Ok, ready?" his eyes skim over me and he smiles. It's a warm, friendly smile. I am a little taken aback.

"What?" I look down at myself, insecurely. He crosses the room to me.

"You are the brilliant army doctor John Watson, saver of lives, solver of crimes and great friend and the lover of the brilliant detective, Sherlock Holmes." He says holding me by my shoulders. The word 'lover' shudders through me. "Let's go and kick this poor imitation's arse." He smiles widely, dangerously and then he kisses me, hard and flicks his tongue inside my mouth. My breath stops and a tremor of lust thrills through me. He turns to the door and runs down the stairs.

Sherlock insists on getting a cab, even though Harry's house is in Clapham, South London. It's across the river and the journey costs a fortune but Sherlock doesn't bat an eyelid. In a city where most people can only afford a flat Harry has a house, of course she does. It's a Victorian terrace big enough for a Victorian family and servants but she's a big wig consultant now at the Chelsea hospital so I guess she can afford it. Sherlock pays the cabbie and meets me at the foot of the stairs. He holds my hand and squeezes.

"Sherlock," I start to say, not sure how to finish the sentence. I want to thank him for coming with me, for agreeing to this nightmare, for supporting me and I want to ask him to behave. I don't say anything.

"I will be the Archangel Gabriel." He smiles, drawing a halo around his head. I smile nervously. "Until she starts being nasty. Then," he spreads his hands like it's out of his control, "then the gloves are off!" Ok. Right then.

We climb the steps to the front door and I press the doorbell, we hear it jangle in the hall. I turn to Sherlock, he has his sociable grin on, he's practising. Bless him.

The door opens and it's Harry. She's lost weight since last time I saw her and her hair is a bit longer than it was too, a sort of long bob is suppose, same colour as mine. People tell us we look alike. I can't see it myself. She's wearing beige linen trousers and a beige linen tunic, looks like pyjamas to me. Expensive but simple diamond jewellery and she's already holding a large glass of red wine. This sends off alarm bells in my head. She's not looking at me, she's looking at Sherlock and I can't blame her. It's time likes this when his obvious upper class breeding comes out.

"John!" she exclaims, still not looking at me. "Lovely to see you! And you must be the mysterious Sherlock Holmes!" She leans forward and Sherlock performs the most realistic air kiss I have ever seen. I am astounded. He's grinning a grin quite different from his usual shark smile. If I didn't know better I'd think he was a sociable, normal guy. Oh dear.

"Hi," his voice is all velvet and chocolate and he hands over the expensive bottle of wine he's brought. I did try to explain that this might not be the wisest gift for Harry but he just grinned. "I've been dying to meet you." To my astonishment Harry simpers. No, really, she does. I'm sure my eyes go wide and I have to adjust my face because we're going into the house and she'd ushering us into the lounge for drinks.

The house is huge and chic. Cream walls and dark wooden floors, period furniture and obscure art. Her lounge has a large brown leather sofa that looks like it might be more at home in a gentlemen's club and two matching armchairs. Sherlock is accepting a glass of wine and making himself at home in one of them. He crosses his legs, a model of civilised, well to do manners. He winks at me.

"So, Sarah's getting dressed upstairs and food will be ready in about half an hour. I hope you're hungry?" I nod, unable to say anything; she does this to me, overwhelms me and makes me feel awkward, uncouth.

"I'm famished Harry, can I call you Harry?" Sherlock is so smooth and Harry does that little giggle again. What? He gets up and goes to the bookshelf. "You've got an interesting selection here; I'd never guess you and John were related. John's only read the Yellow Pages." He laughs lightly and she joins him at the book shelf. They discuss classical literature, of course Sherlock knows all about it, and Harry simpers and agrees with everything he says. I sip my wine and look at a magazine on the table about other people's houses.

After a few minutes Sherlock comes and sits by me on the sofa. By this time he has worked his magic and Harry thinks he's wonderful. I look at my watch; we've been here twenty two minutes.

"So, you're a consultant Harry? That must be a stressful job? Are you on call tonight?" Harry sits down after pouring herself another glass and she is just beaming, she loves talking about herself.

"Well Sherlock, that's an interesting name, where does it come from?" Sherlock smiles intimately, like there's just the two of them present, I begin to feel that familiar feeling of exclusion I get when Harry gets her claws into my friends; surely he isn't falling for this?

"It's a family name Harry; there's always been a Sherlock in our family for generations. So, about your job?" he prompts and smiles and Harry starts to describe her job. It's all very stressful and important and Sherlock is suitably impressed.

"Sounds fascinating, you really are dealing with people's lives aren't you? That must give an enormous sense of power." Sherlock is killing her with that stare, like she's the only person in the room. Harry practically purrs. Then she sees my face and realises I am not joining in with Harryfest 2010.

"Well, John's seen plenty of life and death haven't you John?" it's condescending and patronising.

"Yes but not the refined, high end surgery that you must be performing Harry, right?" Sherlock is looking right at her, I know what that look does. Harry smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear coquettishly. Jesus. "I mean, you must be at the cutting edge of medicine?" Harry nods in a bad impression of modesty.

"Well, there is a lot of pressure and we are performing surgeries that are pretty experimental sometimes, but, you know, we're all just doctors really aren't we John?" I laugh and try to join in their merry circle, I'm not sure I'm convincing.

"Excuse me Sherlock, I have to go and check the food. It should be ready soon. Please, help yourself to another glass of wine and I'll be back in a moment."

On to the rest of the party, don't forget to answer these simple questions:

What's your favourite bit?

What do you think of Harry now?

What do you want |Sherlock to do at the dinner party?

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	8. Playing

Sherlock smiles and nods as Harry passes him the bottle and goes to check the food.

"Yeah sure. Thanks," Harry tucks her hair behind her ear again and practically skips away. I try not to look sulky. I can't believe that Sherlock is really that easily fooled but he's bloody convincing. He turns to me. "Pompous cow." I open my eyes wide and then frown. "What? You didn't believe all that act did you? I must be better than I thought, and I thought I was quite good." He adds modestly.

Before I can speak he leans towards me on the sofa and puts his hand on my face. He kisses me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. His other hand is inching up my leg. I gasp and try to focus, listening frantically for Harry's return. He pulls back and, not letting go of my face begins to speak to me very seriously.

"John, remember who you are. Who I am. Don't be deceived." Harry's feet sound on the stairs from the kitchen and he pulls away from me and stands up.

Harry looks flushed, her face is a little pink now and her eyes slightly glassy, she's already drunk too much. Sherlock excuses himself and asks where directions to the bathroom.

"Top of the stairs, on your left, don't accidentally end up in my bedroom!" she teases. He gives her the slow blink.

"I'll try to resist the temptation." As soon as he's gone she's all questions.

"He's lovely. Where did you meet him? Where's he from? Are you just friends? You really like him don't you?" I try to answer but she's not really interested. Sherlock comes back.

"Nice house," he smiles.

"Ooh you peeked didn't you? Naughty!" they giggle. "Anyway, dinner's ready," she says to Sherlock, ignoring me completely. "Sarah's just gone down to open another bottle." Sherlock fills Harry's glass with what is left of the bottle we have started.

"Lead the way." He takes her elbow like some Victorian gentleman leaving me to trail behind.

We go downstairs to the dining room. It's decorated in the same style as the rest of the house. The dining room table is huge and looks like it used to belong to Dracula. Everything down here is wrought iron, dark wood and cream paint.

"I love it down here." Says Sherlock like he's a journalist from 'Country Home'. "Was it the kitchens? Or servants quarters do you think?" Harry loves talking about her house.

"I think the servants were on the fourth floor," she says enjoying her subject. "Lots of the neighbours have made these rooms into flats for the au pair or the nanny. I like the kitchen and the dining room down here. It means I can keep guests where I want them." Her head cocks to one side, is she flirting with him? He grins and leans towards her.

"I think I'd have a dungeon down here." He mutters dangerously, teasing. She giggles and punches his arm lightly. She actually punches his arm. I wince and Sherlock grins more widely.

"Easy tiger," he chuckles, "don't presume I'd be the sub." Harry shrieks and laughs more.

"Sherlock!" he raises an eyebrow smoothly. I know he's never seen James Bond so how is he acting like him now? I have a bad feeling about this. Their teasing and flirting is getting sickening. He actually flicks some imaginary dust off her tunic, but then the mood changes because Sarah comes in, and yes, it is Sarah. Sarah from the surgery. She smiles at me and goes to stand near Harry who puts her arm around her, possessively.

"John." Sarah's voice is quiet after all the noise Sherlock and Harry have been making. I smile and clutch my wine glass. "It's nice to see you. How are you doing? You look well." I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Before I can flounder Sherlock steps in.

"So, Harry how did you meet Sarah?" Harry and Sarah smile at each other like it's their favourite question to be asked. It's sickening and it's probably what I'd do if someone asked me about Sherlock.

In between private jokes and giggles they tell us how Sarah met Harry at the surgery.

"I was looking for you John, you know, when you went missing?" I nod and try not to think about Moriarty, the bomb jacket he made me wear, the swimming pool. "I went because you'd not been blogging or texting. And there was Sarah..."

"Yes and I thought Harry was your brother so that was funny." Sarah is giggling now. "And then someone asked for Dr Watson and..."

"... I answered!" they finish each other's sentences and are laughing like it's funny. It isn't. I've seen this before, with Clara.

"Great." I mumble. "That's great."

"Yes and it turns out we have so much in common. Sarah loves opera and cats..."

"...and Harry has a house in Wiltshire and you know how much I love Wiltshire!" exclaims Sarah. I nod again. I wish I could go home. I glance and Sherlock and his mask has slipped. He's looking at Harry with open hostility. It makes me feel a little better.

"Where's this food I'm starved?" he says heartily, something in the style of that Victorian gentleman again and Harry giggles.

"I'll go and get it," she starts for the direction of the kitchen.

"Do you need a hand?" Sherlock asks, already at the door. Harry looks up at him and there is a strange tension between them.

"Yes alright," she says and they go off to the kitchen. I worry about what they are talking about.

It leaves Sarah and I together.

"Are you ok with this John?" She gestures to the kitchen and I assume she means her relationship with Harry.

"Yes, yes. Its fine, I'm fine. It's not as though we..." I don't know what else to say.

"She's an amazing woman isn't she?" Sarah gushes and I nod again. Sherlock and Harry come back with the dishes, he's carrying three plates like a waiter and she's laughing at something he's said.

She has a wine bottle in her hand along with the fourth plate. She gestures with it and I hold out my glass. She tops me up, slopping wine onto the floor. I've seen this before, Harry is getting drunk.

"Now I made a decision for everyone and skipped starters because I thought we'd all rather savour our deserts." she announces, full of her own self importance.

"I like a decisive woman," laughs Sherlock and Sarah joins in. We sit down at the table, Sherlock opposite Harry and Sarah opposite me. The conversation is pleasant enough apart from now, when Sherlock teases me gently, Harry really gets the knives out.

"Oh I bet he's nightmare to live with." She says tucking into her couscous and lamb dish. Sherlock laughs conspiratorially, I try to smile.

"Well he does wash up very well." They chuckle, even Sarah laughs though I don't find this funny. We finish the first course. We, and when I say we I mean Sherlock and Harry, have talked about opera.

"Oh Puccini every time! The only opera John knows is the one they use for the football credits"

Shakespeare. "I think that whole scene isn't his, I mean, it just isn't his voice is it? I thought about taking John but it's not really his thing is it?"

Politics. "The problem is they're all the same now, aren't they? Did you vote this time John? That's so irresponsible."

Gay rights. "I mean, people think the problems gone away but it's not, it's just more underground now. And the army aren't helping with that are they? All that underground bullying?"

Afghanistan. "Well we just shouldn't be there should we? I don't know how anyone with a conscience can join the Forces." They love each other. Or so it seems. And I'm an uncultured, irresponsible, murderer. Cheers. There's another bottle and a half of wine gone but I notice Sherlock isn't drinking. I am beginning to feel sick. Sherlock pushes his plate away and sighs with satisfaction.

"That was divine Harry," he smiles broadly and she giggles again and does that hair tucking thing. I am about to just retch, I want to get up and shout 'fuck you all, you bastards!' but maybe that's the third glass of wine talking.

Then I feel his hand upon my knee. I look at his face and it betrays nothing. Harry is talking about the house, how much she paid for it, how she got the bathroom done, the nightmare with the plumber and Sherlock looks enthralled. But his fingers are creeping ever so slowly up my leg. I shift in my seat because, maybe it's the wine or the forbidden nature of the act but he is making me hard. I look at him and he seems not to notice but then he glances sideways for a split second and runs his tongue slowly across his lips. Christ.

Sarah goes to get the deserts and that's when Harry really starts.

"So, John, are you going to do something with your life? I mean you can't share Sherlock's flat forever." She's assumed it's his flat and I'm just lodging. I can't even explain our arrangement, that we share the money we make solving crime, that Sherlock is quite solvent and he doesn't mind buying the things we need. I feel like that sulky teenager at a family gathering, I look down, why am I not wearing a hoodie and headphones?

"From John's blog Sherlock, have you stopped blogging John?" She doesn't even wait for an answer. "Anyway, from his blog I gather you're an amateur detective?" Sherlock bristles and it's the first time I've seen the act fall, Harry doesn't notice, she's drunk too much. He changes the subject.

"I love this table..." his hand smoothes across the rough wood, his other hand smoothes right over my crotch. I nearly jump out of my seat. Then he squeezes me, just enough to stifle the blood flow and then lets go. He puts his elbows on the table and links his hands. Harry's off about the table now, how she got it from this dear little Turkish man... whatever. I am passed caring.

Sarah brings the deserts in on a tray. Tiny little pyramids of coffee and chocolate brulee. I've got to admit they are delicious. But then something is wrong with Sarah. Maybe it's the fact that Harry is talking to just Sherlock now, or maybe it's the way she seems to be taking any opportunity to touch him, his hands, his sleeve. Whatever it is she announces she's going to bed. Harry looks up from her monologue about where to buy really good coffee in London and smiles condescendingly; if she calls Sarah the little woman I won't be surprised.

"You get off darling. I'll be up later, don't be asleep." She leers and gives Sarah's backside a very obvious caress. She turns back to Sherlock grinning widely. I think she thinks it's turning him on, some men do find the prospect of lesbians attractive I suppose, I've seen the films. He is smiling though the dark fringe of his hair, he is a master at this I realise and now I can see how he managed to do all that experimenting.

So, it's just the three of us. Joy. It's Sherlock who brings the conversation to Clara, to Sarah.

"Now you see what I find amazing is that you two clearly have the same taste in women." He steeples his hands and puts his chin on top, eager and interested. Harry laughs.

"Well, they start out with John and then..." Sherlock laughs.

"It must be so much easier with another woman though," he says, still looking rapt in the conversation. "I mean all the same bits and pieces."

"Well I think a woman needs a women's touch you know Sherlock?" She's all intimate and confiding, any minute now she's going to invite him up to the bedroom to watch. "Not that I can't be as much of a man as my brother when the need arises!" she snorts with laughter.

"Harry! You're awful!" Sherlock touches her arm; there is a strange moment between them.

"Well, just because you have the disk drive doesn't mean you don't want the joystick!" she guffaws, they both laugh. "And I can have a range of sizes, not just small." She looks at me pointedly. Evil cow. Sherlock turns to me suddenly.

"John, would you get my coat? I left it in the lounge and it's got my phone in the pocket, I'm waiting for a text." I look at him, it's not true. A) He doesn't know where his phone is because it wasn't in the oven when he got back from Liverpool St and B) why is he asking me to get it. Not that I care, anything to get out of here. I leave as Harry starts to tell a story about how a guy once propositioned her and Clara in a nightclub and they let him watch. I think I'm going to be sick; it's obviously a lead up to something.

I take the steps slowly, unsure of how this evening has gone. I just want to go home now. Any plan Sherlock had has obviously gone with the wine and I am seriously wondering if two lesbians is an experiment he wants to try. I rummage in his coat even though I know there's no phone and then I start to go back downstairs. I hear Harry's voice.

"I don't want to seem forward Sherlock but you seem like a man of the world." Her voice is smooth and, I have to admit, seductive. I imagine her hand on his chest, caressing that soft grey silk. He chuckles softly, I can't bear to listen.

"What are you suggesting Harry?"

"Look, I know you're friends with John, but he won't mind if you stay tonight will he?"

"Here? Why would I stay here when I have a perfectly good bed of my own?" Sherlock's voice is teasing.

"Well because I won't be in that bed Sherlock and neither will Sarah." I stand in the hall outside the dining room and I am stunned. Even though I know my sister is a manipulative, jealous bitch I still find it hard to process that she has just asked Sherlock to spend the night with her and Sarah. I am outraged, for me, for Sherlock, but most of all for Sarah. There is silence apart from some movement in the room. I wish I could see what is going on. Then I realise the door is open an inch and if I edge out of the light I will be able to see.

Sherlock is standing next to his chair, Harry in front of him; she is reaching up to his face with one hand and down to his trousers with the other. Jesus she's got some balls, if you'll pardon the expression. She brings his face down to hers, he is smiling and I am almost crying. I can feel the lump in my throat, the barbed wire in my belly.

"Do you really think I would fuck you when I have your delicious brother at home in my bed?" Sherlock's voice is still soft, still seductive and it takes both me and Harry a moment to realise what he has said. Harry stumbles back against the table. Sherlock's hand snakes out and at first I think it's to catch her but he grips her wrist and I can see the skin turning white. "Why bother with a poor imitation when I have the real thing?"

I can see Harry trying to think, trying to turn it around, make out it was a joke or a mistake but the fact is she isn't quick enough and she's too drunk to think clearly. Sherlock is smiling, continuing to talk in that same intimate voice, even though he is holding her wrist tightly.

"You've played a nasty little game for too long and now it's over, do you understand?" Harry nods numbly, she looks terrified and I'm not surprised. Sherlock's voice is still seductive, almost a purr. "Now I'm going to go home and give your brother the seeing to of his life. Don't bother us again Harry. "He lets go of her wrist and she crumples to the floor. He doesn't even look down at her as he walks past. I run up a few steps and meet him as I pretend to come down. He grabs my arm.

"Harry's rather ill, think we'd better go." I nod and follow him as he takes the stairs three at a time. He grabs his coat and we walk briskly out onto the street. He hails a cab.

"I apologise if that was an uncomfortable evening for you John." He says as he slumps back in the seat of the cab.

"Well, I was rather worried..." he leans forward.

"About me? And Harry?" his eyebrows are so high in his forehead that I laugh. It's clear he finds the suggestion ludicrous.

"Well, yes about that and..." he frowns.

"And?" his head is cocked to one side.

"Well, when you were downstairs just then with Harry and she..."

"Yes, yes." He nods impatiently. "And I said I was taking you home to fuck you."

"I think your words were give me 'the seeing to of my life'!" He grins back broadly.

"Indeed." He nods, still grinning. "And here we are home!" It's with some trepidation that I get out of the cab.

No sooner are we in the door but he has me pushed up against it. He kisses me fiercely, crushing my mouth with his. His hands are in my hair and he moans into my mouth, my knees have just gone I think.

He moves down to my neck, licking and sucking. I am aching for him to touch me. It's like a line drawn down my body, I will him along it. His fingers move towards my nipples, through the soft knit of the jumper his fingertips feel like heaven. I begin to make my own journey with my hands, towards his waistline but he pushes my hands away. He stops for a moment and unbuttons his jacket. He looks at me, it a long slow look up and down. I shiver. He leans towards me, hands fixing my shoulders to the door.

"Bedroom John." He whispers. "Now please." It's the incongruity of that word, mumbled with definite lust which has me almost trembling. He steps away from me, I am expecting him to move towards the bedroom but he doesn't. As I walk away he leans against the door with one shoulder and looks me over. He does the slow blink. I'm almost glad I can't hear his thoughts.

I get to the bedroom and wonder what I should do now. Do I undress? Arrange myself on the bed? Both of these ideas feel ridiculous. As I am still thinking Sherlock comes in the room. His jacket is off, his shoes and socks and so is the tie, his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. In his hand is the lube bottle. Oh good god.

"On the bed." His voice is quiet but I don't think I've ever heard him like this before. Nervously I lie down. The bed feels cold underneath the thin jumper and I still have my shoes on. I sit up start to take them off. Sherlock kneels on the bed, his body stops me getting to my shoes, he pushes me back on to the bed. His weight is on me and he grinds his hips into mine. My breathing is erratic and the blood is pounding to my crotch. His fingers are on my nipples, teasing and playing. The line of fire down my body seems to tense up and become the only thing I can think about. He pushes up the jumper roughly and runs his tongue over my nipples. Electricity crackles between us, I am arching off the bed, desperate for his touch on my hard cock. He chuckles.

"If you want it John, you have to ask for it." I am panting and this doesn't help. Really? Ask for it? You bastard. Argh. He's flicking at my nipples with his tongue and its driving me mad but there is somewhere I would much more like his mouth to be. I frown, it's not just the words it's this admission and he knows this. I hold out, the pressure building, I want him more than I want anything else.

"Sherlock?" my voice sounds hoarse, desperate

"Hmm?" he sounds amused.

"Will you... I... I want you mouth on me." he continues to lick and now he nips. Ouch, that's nice.

"It is on you John." He stops and looks at me, smiling evilly. I close my eyes.

"On my cock Sherlock. Please." I add because it's just the sort of thing the bastard wants me to say and I want him that badly. He chuckles again; it's a dark and dangerous sound.

His mouth trails down and down. His fingers undo the little silver buttons of the jeans. He sucks at me through the cotton of my shorts and he moves away. I arch off the bed, following his mouth, he grins. Slowly he pulls down the front of the obstructing material and traces his tongue along me. I shudder and let out a long breath I didn't realise I was holding in. A slow fire courses through me as he takes his time. First the tip, tiny swirls of the tongue, then slowly, slowly down my entire length. All my attention is pushed into those inches of my body, it's like the rest doesn't exist.

"Turn over." He looks up and into my eyes when he says this. He's so intent and serious that his words thrum through me. I've got to admit I am a little scared and this is more of a turn on than I had imagined. He leans away from me and I turn over, feeling vulnerable and more than a little excited.

He touches me through my jeans, skimming his hands up over my buttocks and down the crease between them. I've never considered this an erogenous zone but now it seem directly linked to my cock. I breathe into the pillow and find myself edging my legs apart. Sherlock's mouth is at my ear.

"Want more?" I nod mutely. I wiggle my hips further but the jeans impede me. He knew that would happen didn't he?

"There's my good little soldier." I am about to protest, but then his fingers trace that crease again, pushing slightly at my entrance. I arch up, almost on my knees. He runs the fingers down me, under me until they touch my naked erection. I moan as he scratches his nails over me and back along that maddening crease.

He lies over me and I can feel his hard on pushing at me though his suit trousers. I know that there is nothing between us but clothes. For some reason this hitches my breath, makes it impossible to think of anything but what he will feel like skin to skin. His movements are becoming harder, more insistent and this in turn pushes my own hard flesh against the bed, creating unbelievable friction. I start to moan and I can't help it. He kneels back and somehow gets his trousers off, his shorts follow. He lies back over me and pushes my jumper up over my head.

"Take it off." The skin of his chest on my back sets me on fire. Feeling the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock against my buttocks is almost more than I can take. I ache. I burn. He thrust against me and I think he's going to come; he sounds wild, his breath ragged in my ear. Maybe he's changed his mind and I realise that I would be disappointed now if he had. More than disappointed. I need him. Fuck it. I decide to tell him.

"Sherlock." He stops grinding against me and lies still. His hips buck against mine, it's an involuntary action and it's killing me to know that he is so turned on, by me. "Sherlock. I want you to fuck me." He hisses out his breath, I turn my face to the side and he is biting his lip. His eyes are open, drinking me in. He curls his lip slightly and almost growls. God.

His hands are pulling at my jeans and I lift off the bed and he pulls them down, my shorts with them. I can't wiggle my legs any further apart and I think he's going to take them off but he doesn't. He has more torment in mind first.

The naked skin of my buttocks seems to sear where his erection touches me. I want to open to him, feel him inside me although I have no idea what this sensation will be like. But now there is a Sherlock shaped hole in my body. His cock is slick from his arousal and he pushes it against me. I'm not sure I can take much more; the friction of my cock on the bed is maddening.

He pulls back and removes my shoes, socks. He pulls away the jeans and short which have barred his way and he spreads my legs wide, hitching me to my knees. I hiss in my breath. I have never felt so vulnerable or so aroused.

The lube is cold as he dribbles it over my skin; I feel it warming as it drips along my body, slipping over my balls and my hard flesh. I shiver and I don't know if it's the cold or the excitement. He places the tip against me. No fingers, no practise run. Oh god.

With the slowest, most minute movements he opens me. It burns as each tiny movement pushes him inside me. His precision and patience are incredible. Inch by inch he pushes, the burning gives way to a warm pleasure, the sensation of being filled is new and thrilling. He's moaning softly with each tiny thrust. I know what he's feeling and this is combining to push me further and further to orgasm. He slips past that strange body bend and the next movement has him in me. He holds me still with my hips as I writhe and burn. Slowly he sits me back until I am on his lap; his is as deep as he can go. His breath is shallow and his hands come round and caress my hard cock. It's too much, I feel like I might explode. He nudges his hips and I buck forward and then back, desperate not to lose this intimacy, this painful pleasure. I lean back against him, he holds me still with one arm over my chest and the other cupped on my erection. My eyes are open and I see our image reflected in the wardrobe mirror. His pale skin, his flushed face pressed against my shoulder. How open I am, how owned and held. His hand strokes more insistently, his hips follow the pattern. I feel my world unravelling, contracting to those two places on my body. He begins to grunt with each thrust. The movement, the burning, the hand on my cock and the image of us moving together in the mirror are too much, I start to come. I tell him. I tell him that this is amazing, he is amazing. I swear and moan and I come harder than I thought possible. It's so good it almost hurts. His movements are not smooth now, they are feral, animal and he shouts my name, he tells me I am his and I feel the most extraordinary sensation of him coming inside me.

I am wired, shaking, almost crying. Carefully he pulls away from me. I will always have that Sherlock shaped space inside me now.

Argh! I wrote it! Phew.

So did this make you cheer? Which bit?

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Help me out and leave me a review to let me in on what's working here. Back to Monopoly next!

As always I have to give a cheer and a huzzah for my Baker St irregulars! PrincessNala,Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate and 2cajuman2, you guys have made this fic better than I could have done alone!

Thanks to Reg and the OHOB for loving me!


	9. The Wheelbarrow

I wake up alone in his bed. And, even though I wonder where he is, what he's doing, I am happy to be alone. It gives me time to think. My world has changed. I had never really understood it when women set so much store by sex, maybe it's part of the arrogant male condition, maybe it's social engineering but I couldn't really see how sex equalled commitment. Obviously the risk of pregnancy is an obvious reason for this thinking but in the days of myriad contraceptive devices I just didn't really get it. Now I do.

I fold my hands behind my head and wonder. Is it penetration? Is it that I have now, like a woman, allowed someone access to my body? I have been used and enjoyed, not in a selfish, uncaring way but the fact is this has been done to me. I was not doing, Sherlock was. It's such a mind fuck, such a change of perspective that I need some time to process this. Like a huge tree, tangents spring from every question. I have done this to Sherlock twice; does he feel like this about it? He was so willing for me to do this to him; surely it can't have the same meaning for him? What will happen now? When I get up, go into the lounge and see him? How will he be? How will I be?

All I know is things have changed on a tectonic level. I can honestly say the earth has moved. Jesus. Do I love him? Yes, yes I do. He is my best friend, the person with whom I most comfortable. I admire him, respect him, care for him. I worry when he goes out because he can be such a genius and then so socially inept. I want to spend all my time with him, listening to the amazing way his mind works, his infinite knowledge on the subjects he deems worthy. I want to explain the other things to him, the solar system, who is our Prime Minister. I enjoy my role as carer, side kick, sounding board and lover. I stop here for a moment. Does this mean I am IN love with him? Is this the difference, the subtle shift from love to 'in love'? The overwhelming attraction I have towards him? The willingness to give him my all, let him do with me what he will? It's not just that, because I also want to protect him, own him, possess him jealously and with every fierce impulse I have. And at the same time I want what will make him happy, even at my own expense.

I try to sort it out, to make it make sense. I try so hard to think about what my ideas of love were before this but I can't remember. And there's a part of me saying it wouldn't matter if I did remember. It's like saying your starving when you're a bit hungry. I've said that before, on the way to the chippy and I've been starved too. A week in that dark, damp room with no food, not knowing if I was going to live or die. And I wasn't as scared as I am now. Because I am fucking petrified. Being held hostage there were three options: torture, freedom and death. I accepted the first. After a while the pain became a sensation with a label, nothing more. I wanted the second; I wanted to go home, to see my friends and the sky again. If death came then it was an end, there was nothing else to worry about. But now I can think of something worse than torture and death. And that would be to live without Sherlock. Because it would be a living death. Fuck. I even sound dramatic to myself. But it's true. Fuck. I think I might cry.

So, am I in love with him? I think the answer is yes. Yes I am in love with Sherlock Holmes. Right.

So where does that leave me? Because I don't know if he feels like this, if he's capable of feeling like this? What do I do now? Where do I go? I can't leave because it'll kill me. I can't stay because... I try to imagine what it will feel like if he is just the same. If, for him, nothing has changed. It hurts me physically, I want to be sick. I'm beginning to be scared of even getting out of bed for fear of what I will find in his face.

And there's the small fact that I hurt like hell. Yes, I ache. There. Thanks for asking. I shift slightly and wince a lot. Ouch.

So I lie there a bit longer. It's not getting any clearer. I try to imagine us later, in a few years when the first flush of lust has gone, not that I can actually imagine not lusting over that long, lithe body, getting turned on by those eyes, that mouth. Ah. Where was I? Oh yes. Us two pottering about 221b like a married couple. I grin. Even a life with no amazing fucking but with Sherlock still in it is the best life I can imagine.

And then I remember how he dealt with Harry. The anger and protection in his eyes when he told her to stop playing games. Male conditioning, social structure insist I bristle on being so protected but instead, really, deep down, it makes me proud and happy. Maybe I should just stay here forever and never get up? I feel like Schrödinger's cat. Fucking hell John.

The door bursts open and he bounds in. He's in that silly dressing gown, really John burn it, and he's wearing just his shorts. He is holding a cup of coffee and... toast. What? He puts both things down on the bedside table and fishes some things from his pockets. It's a lotion bottle and a silver foil tray of ibuprofen. He grins sheepishly.

"Aloe gel, good for erm... friction burns. Painkillers good for pain I believe! Coffee and toast, good for breakfast!" I smile. I try to sit up, wincing slightly. This is thoughtful, astonishing, but before I can say anything he carries on. "I have some deductions to share with you John. This is the first time you've had anal penetration so you will be feeling sore. You will also be feeling quite disorientated, after all I think that what you did last night was commonly accepted by society as a 'big deal'." I can hear the quotation marks. "You've made yourself vulnerable and taken what is seen by society as a female role and assumed, quite incorrectly, to be a submissive one." I am looking at him warily, this sounds like a big brush off coming soon. His voice is that analytical, precise tone he uses with Lestrade. I feel my stomach go cold, my throat constrict.

"Knowing you John I can't imagine you did that lightly. Years of army conditioning surely has informed you of the weaker position of being anally penetrated. I have to conclude that our actions last night will have had a profound impact on your psyche, will probably result in some feelings of uncertainty and vulnerability. I am aware too that you have placed great importance and esteem upon me by allowing me to be the other body in that equation. I want you to know John that I have the deepest respect, affection and admiration for you. I feel honoured to be part of your life, that you choose to spend time with me. Obviously I have an intense physical attraction to you John. Very intense," he shudders." but it's not all that there is." He stops for a moment, he looks away and lost. I want to touch him but I get the feeling he wants to get this out. "I wondered this morning if you might want to move out now." Here it comes... oh Jesus Christ no. "And the sensation that notion gave me was the singularly most unpleasant experience I've ever had. Even worse than the lead poisoning." His voice is thoughtful. What? Lead poisoning? What IS he on about now? He shakes his head, not at me but at himself

"I'm not sure I've accurately conveyed what I am feeling." He says in a small voice I haven't heard before. "Have I?" It's the first time I have heard uncertainty in his voice. I am taken aback.

I run back over what he has said. Cares for me? Check. Likes being with me? Check. Fancies the arse off me? Check. Doesn't want me to leave? Check.

"Sherlock? Are you saying you love me?" he turns his head. I'm stunned by the depth of emotion in his eyes. The rest of his face is expressionless because he doesn't know what to think, say or do. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. I've never seen him so still except when he was staring at those damned crime scene pictures. He frowns and twists his mouth, it's like some words are fighting to get out. There is a knock at the front door.

I sit up suddenly and instantly regret it. Sherlock stands up, he still looks confused and he pulls his dressing gown around him and goes to answer the knocking. I hear voices, Lestrade, Sherlock. Wincing I get out of bed and swallow the painkillers with the coffee. I stuff some toast in my mouth and, taking the bottle of gel, I limp to the bathroom.

By the time I'm dressed and the painkillers have kicked in I fell much better. I go into the lounge and Lestrade is there. No Sherlock. He looks up at me, Jesus he looks tired.

"Morning. You ok? You look rough!" He says to me. I laugh.

"Just what I was going to say to you." e grins ruefully.

"Yeah well I was up all night questioning the bastard we caught strangling a woman on Vine St," he sighs. "Bet your evening was much more exciting." I raise my eyebrows and nod.

"Yes. Yes it was."

"Humph." He nods. "He told me to bring you to the Yard."

"Sherlock?" I pick up my jacket.

"Yep. He said to give you this." It is a piece of paper. I don't want to open it in front of Lestrade so I stuff it in my pocket. I follow Lestrade out of the door to the squad car which is waiting for us on the street.

I'm in Lestrade's office, on his comfy 'I'm the boss around here' chair. I'm sipping coffee and waiting for my man. Ha. Sherlock's off looking at footage of the suspect they've got downstairs half throttling some old lady. The confident bastard already had planted the two hundred quid on her and stuck an orange in her pocket. I've seen the film twice and I don't want to see it again.

Sherlock was delighted that his advice to watch the other Monopoly locations has paid off so quickly. He's also happy that the emergence of an orange location means there must be another player. I am finding it hard to square sociopath Sherlock with the man I was speaking to this morning. As far as I know he hasn't told Lestrade about the Brotherhood. Maybe he's waiting to see what happens here. I did arrive to see him get needled by Anderson again though, that was fun.

Anderson, still leaning, this time on a chair, told Sherlock he thought his theory was 'rubbish'. Sound analytical, scientific language there Anderson, you've done yourself proud, I think, while I watch Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Explain" Sherlock commands.

"Well, I don't understand what you're saying about games and five year intervals and I think you're just trying to make your theory squeeze into the facts instead of the other way around. " Bloody hell he's braver than I thought. Or more stupid. Sherlock's mouth is a thin line. He grabs a marker from the mug on Lestrade's desk and starts to draw on a large piece of paper which seems to show some important performance charts.

"Hey!" Lestrade starts to say but then Sherlock looks at him, eyebrow raised and he sits back down, nursing his coffee.

"Monopoly has been going since 1935 and the killers have been playing a game once every five years." Sherlock draws a line on the paper and marks one end of it '1935' and the other '2010'. He then marks out the five year intervals and labels them.

"So they've played eight times since 1960 when police record can be evidenced. In those eight times they've played three games. Because Monopoly takes ages and each game can take several turns of the five year anniversaries." Underneath the eight intervals he draws some lines, two join together from 1960 and 1965, he writes 'game one'. the next two join from 1970 and 75 and he writes 'game two', three from 80,85 and 90 and he just keeps going until he has four games.

"This last game isn't finished." He points to the sheet. "they have a set number of times the die can be rolled each five years. If the game doesn't end it just carries on. When someone gets a set the game ends. So they might have started a game in 1960 and it took them to 1975 to finish it and for one player get a whole set." He looks at me, then looks quickly away and to Anderson. "Is that any easier on your tiny brain? They leave the five year gap because it breaks up suspicion or because they can only meet up every five years but they're still on the same game. If we were playing and John had three stations and then our time was up for 2010 he'd have to wait until 2015 to try to get the last one before the rest of us got our full set." He sits on the desk, pleased with himself. It's a good explanation made better by the diagram. Anderson says nothing; this isn't good enough for Sherlock. He jumps up from the desk.

"Well?" Lestrade nods, reluctantly Donovan does too. Sherlock beams.

"Can we go and see the suspect now?" His enthusiasm is infectious, hell; even I want to see the suspect. Lestrade smiles and I get the feeling it's in spite of himself.

We look through the one way glass. The man is a thin, balding nobody. It never ceases to amaze me how the most ordinary people can be killers but I've seen it before. It's never the big blokes with the scary eyes.

"What has he said?" Sherlock asks Lestrade who consults some notes.

"Nothing. He won't confirm that he's being paid for this. Is claiming voices made him do it." He rolls his eyes and sighs.

"What do you know about him?" Sherlock's eyes never leave the man inside the room who is sitting with his head on the table. He looks asleep. Casual bastard. Lestrade checks his notes again.

"David Imperely. Carer at the Duchess of York home for the elderly. No previous form. In short, nothing much to go on." But Sherlock's eyes are gleaming.

"Sent anyone down to his workplace?" he asks smiling. Lestrade knows something is going on.

"Yes, but they didn't get anything." He shrugs.

"Because they didn't know what to look for!" Sherlock is clapping now. His eyes are bright and he almost skips to the door. "John!"

"Hang on, hang on." Lestrade is after us. "If you're withholding evidence Sherlock..."

"It's circumstantial, no use to you unless I'm right!" he shouts as he runs down the corridor to the lift. I follow, apologising to Lestrade who shrugs.

"Look after him John." he mumbles. I shrug. I'll try.

In the inevitable cab back to Baker St Sherlock doesn't look at me but he babbles on ten to the dozen.

"How much money would you like to bet that one of our ancient brotherhood is at that nursing home? Well, don't bet anything John, because I'm right. That must be how Imperely was hired. Fantastic but they're slipping!" He grins and claps his hands again, drums his feet on the floor of the cab, impatient and childlike. I smile even though I am worried about how he has been treating me today. Did I ask too much with the L word? I sigh and he glances at me and then away. Avoidance. Lovely. Suddenly I have empathy for all those girls in my youth who I shagged and didn't phone.

We get home and he's on laptop straight away. Tapping and peering at the screen. Then he goes to the phone.

"Hi, I hope you can help me but I'm trying to find friends of my father's? You see it's his funeral on Saturday and we're trying to contact as many of his old friends as we can. It was his dying wish. Yes, yes, thank you." He's on hold and he snapping his fingers in total contrast to the tone he's using. He sounds like he might cry and looks like laughing. It's a bit frightening. "Hello? Oh thanks. Well I have some names here and I wondered... yes of course data protection, I did think that but... I wouldn't ask but it was dad's dying wish. There are so few of them left..." He reads some names out from the screen. Not the big, famous ones I notice, he's already checked their bios on the internet and knows they aren't at the Duchess of York. He's nodding." Right, yes, that might be him. Oh thank you. Really, thanks. That's brilliant. So helpful. Honestly, that's great. Thanks. Bye. Yes thanks." He beams and points to the screen. It's a young man in his twenties I'd say. Dapper in a nice suit, big grin, slicked hair.

"James Abrahams. Landscape gardener to the rich. Wheelbarrow!" He is ecstatic, buzzing. It's very attractive. He literally jumps us out of his chair and grabs his coat and scarf. "I'll be back soon, no point running about in your condition." He kisses my forehead and I feel like a Stepford wife. I sigh. I want to talk to him but I don't know what say. He looks at me seriously. "John, that question you asked me this morning?" I nod, miserably. "Did you read my note? The one Lestrade gave you?" I shake my head more miserably. "Well you should. I'll be back for dinner. Chinese?" and he's gone.

My question from this morning? Are you saying you love me Sherlock? I open the note, in his scrawled handwriting it says:

"**When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,**_**however improbable**_**, must be the truth." **I look up, taking in what he is telling me, what he cannot say to my face and then I rush to the window. He is getting into a cab but as he does he looks up at me. He smiles and blows a kiss.

Ok the response to this fic has me reeling. You guys are the kindest, most expressive, funny adn responsive bunch of people ever! PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate and 2cajuman2 , you ladies rock and you have made this so much more fun than writing alone. Welcome to the new irregulars too! Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear. mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild! There might be a gap of a few days now because the faithful Baker St Irregulars know that I am moving house tomorrow! Argh.

So, what do you think? Am I still in character? Is the plot still exciting? What's your fave bit? Did I not beta myself enough because it's midnight and I'm bloody knackered? :D review me and reveal all!

Because I am evil and in the spirit of the original inventor of the cliff hanger , Sir Arthur Conan Doyle id just like to say the next chapter will have john in peril. I know, I'm sitting in my evil bond villain chair now, stroking a cat! Cheers guys, you're ace!


	10. Consequences

Be warned my faithful Baker St Irregulars, the Brotherhood of Charlemagne mean business. And they're not nice people.

I lay on the sofa thinking. Thinking about what the note said, what it meant. Did he mean what I think he did? Am I just phenomenally stupid and I have got completely the wrong message? He blew a kiss, my stomach does flips thinking about that, but was he just being theatrical? I have no idea. None at all.

"**When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,**_**however improbable**_**, must be the truth**." I look at the note again. What was the impossible? Being without me or that he could feel something like love? Or was that the improbable, that he loved me? This wasn't getting any clearer and I was thinking myself into an anxiety attack here. I got up to get a beer from the fridge, early I know but it'd been a hell of a day so far. As I passed my jacket, slung over a chair back, I heard the beeping of my phone. I fished it out of the pocket, surprised Sherlock hadn't taken it with him. We still hadn't found his. A thorough search of the oven, microwave and fridge had come back empty. He couldn't think where held put it, probably not important enough information to warrant saving on the hard drive as he liked to call his brain. I sighed and smiled, and then started worrying again. Jesus John, save it and ask him outright when he gets back. I looked at the screen.

'**Come to Duchess of York retirement home ASAP. Have sent ' **What? He told me to stay here? I blew out a long breath and started to put on my coat, texting him back.

'**You found your phone? Where was it? J x'**, as soon as I sent it I regretted the kiss. Argh. Was it too much? I was still worrying when the phone beeped.

'**Phone was in other pocket. SH x'** Other pocket? I started laughing; only Sherlock would not consider checking both pockets of his coat because the he always used one side for his phone. The man was a liability. Then I noticed the kiss. I stand staring at the phone for several seconds until I hear a horn beeping downstairs.

My heart is pounding as I leave the flat. I get into the cab and the driver smiles at me in the rear view mirror and pulls away from the kerb. After about thirty minutes we reach a leafy suburban street and he pulls up to where a tall man is standing on the pavement. The tall man gets in the car.

I look at him in surprise, no one shares cabs and drivers don't stop for another customer with one already in the back. The man is wearing a dark suit and has short, neat dark hair. He could work in a bank or an office. anywhere. He is so nondescript. He smiles at me and produces a gun.

Any calm, any relaxing of the old army muscles or the tension of the PTSD is gone in the blink of an eye. My brain registers several things, I haven't got my revolver, this was a trap, Sherlock won't know where I am. This is before the man also produces a syringe and, grabbing my hand, sinks the needle into my arm.

When I come around, sick and with a banging headache of the sort you get from litres of vodka and cheap nightclubs I am in a bedroom. It's the sort of room you find in a guest house, chintzy bedspread, flowered wallpaper, matching curtains. In peach. The ambience of the seaside B&B is so strong that I am surprised to see there are no windows with a sea view. I check my pockets, my phone and wallet are gone, in fact my pockets have been emptied. I stand still listening. All I can hear is the distant rattle of a train but it might be a washing machine, further in the building. The door is shut and I try the handle but it's predictably locked. There is a television but when I switch it on it seems to have only one channel and that is playing westerns. There is nothing else to do so I sit back on the bed, plump the pillow and watch.

I have now watched Ride Vaquero, Warlock and A Bullet for the General. It must be late into the evening and no one has even come to see me. I was dying for a pee and in the end I used a cup from the dressing table and covered it with a saucer. Disgusting but then I HAVE been kidnapped. In my time in the room I have worked out a few things.

As no one has been in to see me, torture me or ask me questions there is another reason for my incarceration. I am leverage, I guess, a way to get at Sherlock? My kidnappers don't think I know anything that they need so they aren't going to bother asking me. my other observation is that westerns are gay. I mean this in the most literal sense of the world. Too many of those cowboys went mad when their friends fell in love with women for there to be anything other than a homoerotic subtext. By the end of the second film I was enjoying filling in the scenes we weren't shown. You know the sex in the tent by the lonely campfire. The snogging before the gunfights. I vow that if I get out of here I will watch Brokeback Mountain. This is when the door opens.

It is the man from before and he is still holding the gun. I stand up from the bed and switch off the TV. He gestures for me to stand and he is just escorting me out of the door when I do a foolish thing. I sweep a foot back and trip him, he stumbles and I am ready with my fists clenched together to give him the mother of all headaches when someone punches me in the face, hard. I stumble and am dragged to my feet. I think my cheekbone might be broken and the flesh under my eye starts to swell. They are lifting me along the corridor now. I try to pay attention to my surroundings but it's more of the guest room chic. They open a door to a room almost identical to the one I was held in except this one has a chair, a telephone and some pliers. I decide it's time to find that part of my mind where pain is just another sensation with a label.

I'm guessing it's been about ten minutes but it feels like hours. The ropes around my arms and legs which hold me to the chair are starting to chafe my skin. They've played it by the book, I know because I have read the same book. First they showed me the instruments, then they described them and what they did, in this case the removal of finger nails. Then they used them once. As a form of torture it isn't extreme but it does the trick.

The pain was intense and I've wet myself. I let it happen, knowing that it can out a person off to have to be near someone who smells of pee. It didn't put them off. They hold the tip of my remaining little finger nail and press a phone to my ear.

"John? John?" It is Sherlock's voice and, despite the pain, the panic it still makes me feel a little warmer.

"Sherlock?" I whisper. They pull the nail free and I scream. The phone is whipped away, the men leave and they turn off the light.

I don't know how long they leave me there. I switch that part of my brain off and try to be still inside my head. I feel the drip of blood from my two injured fingers stop and I know that they will heal, it'll hurt like hell but they will. Instead I think about why they are doing this. They want Sherlock to stop. These people must be connected to the Brotherhood and this is their way of stopping him. A sick part of me is proud, thinking; they chose me as a lever to him. They know how he feels about me. I realise that sounds fucked up, hey, it is. But right now two men have just pulled out my fingernails, I am stinking of my own piss and I don't know where I am so I reckon I'm allowed some messed up thinking.

After a while I fall into a sort of sleep, jerking awake when the chair I am tied in cuts off my circulation because I have slumped too far forward. In the distance there is a small noise. Like an exhalation of air. A sharp breath. There is some clicking at the door, I tense, ready for the men if they come back although I cannot resist I can be mentally prepared. The door opens an inch, hesitantly and a dirty face peers through.

It is a teenage boy and he smells worse than I do. He checks my pulse and gives me a drink from a plastic bottle in a bag he is carrying on his shoulders. It seems to be some sort of energy drink because a few moments later, once he has cut the ropes and gently rubbed the circulation back into my legs I am wide wake. My fingers throb like a bastard but at least I am alive. The boy has indicted that we shouldn't speak. All I have to say would be pointless questions anyway so I shut up.

When he has taped up my hands and checked my pulse again he gives me a banana to eat. Even though this seems utterly mad, in comparison to the day I've had it's nothing and I know that I can get some quick energy this way. And bananas are silent food, I eat and he watches the door. Then we move off.

We follow the pastel hued corridor and seem to be going up. We don't meet a soul. What is going on? We come out into a kitchen, it looks industrial all chrome and shiny. I don't know what was in that drink but I'm starting to feel giddy. It's like we broke into Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmare, I start to giggle. The boy looks at me sharply. I shut up and smile apologetically.

There's a back door and we're out of it, running across a manicure back lawn and into some rhododendrons. The boy lifts the wire fence where it's been cut and we duck under it. I look back at where I have been held. It's a house. A perfectly nice, normal big house. Something one of those city boys might own. It could be anyone's house, anywhere in a London suburb.

We dodge through some woodlands, wet leaves and whippy branches slapping my face and legs. The energy drink is wearing off, I'm starting to feel very, very sick and my hands feel like they are on fire. Just as I'm certain I can't go any further we stumble onto a road. There is a cab waiting and the door opens.

Two hands with long, pale fingers haul me bodily inside and the cab lurches forward. I slump on the long back bench of the cab while the boy and Sherlock perch on the flip down seats. As my stomach rebels and the interior of the cab starts to swim about the last thing I see are those piercing blue eyes, this time it isn't inquiry and curiosity which makes them burn it is fear and anger.

I'm warm and there's a pleasant sandalwood type smell around me. I can't open my eyes yet, they feel heavy and I am so tired but I enjoy lying and feeling secure. As I begin to drift towards the surface of sleep, or is it shock, I am aware that my cheek is against smooth skin. This is where the smell is coming from and I turn my face slightly to better breathe in the scent. The movement causes something to brush against my hand and the shot of fire which sears through me from my finger tips is an agony. I wince and even screwing my face up hurts. Somewhere there is a voice and it's a voice I associate with comfort and safety. I drift back to sleep.

My dreams are punctuated by that voice shouting, to a woman speaking calmly, rationally and the sound of traffic. When I wake again and this time I sit up I am on the sofa at 221b and it looks like someone's been camping in the lounge with me. He has. He looks up from the laptop where he is furiously typing and he registers my conscious state.

"Do you want some tea?" It's such a silly, incongruous statement that I start to laugh and it hurts. My cheek is swollen and I try to feel it with my hand but the throbbing in my finger makes me put my hand down sharply. He crosses from the chair and kneels on the floor by the side of the sofa. His face is blank and I realise that this does not mean he is not feeling anything more that he has no idea what he is feeling and how to show it.

"Love one." I croak and he smiles and moves away into the kitchen. I close my eyes and listen to him making tea. He taps his fingers as he waits for the kettle and I smile painfully. Then he's back and he's helping me sit up. His hands feel like they are shaking. "How did you know where I was?" my voice trails off, I am reluctant to think about it.

"The phone call. I heard the train. There's only one train which changes points at exactly 01.22 on a Friday morning, the early train to Paddington, so I knew you had to be in the area. I calculated the distance the sound would carry and then got a friend to ask about anyone bringing an unconscious body into a house."

"A friend?"

"James, he sells the 'Big Issue' on Kensington High St." He frowns."How did it happen?" he asks, not on my list of things I thought he would say, or hoped he would either. I frown, it hurts.

"They had your phone." It's hard to piece together that afternoon's events. "I thought the text was from you. "

"What did it say?" his voice is brusque, unemotional but his hands are on my leg and they are stroking and soothing. I blink; I can't keep up with this dichotomy, this contradiction.

"To meet you at the retirement home." I struggle to think, was there more? Something I should have seen to alert me to the imposter? I close my eyes and sigh, the kiss. What was I thinking? Sherlock would never sign a text with a kiss. What a fucking idiot I have been. A blind, stupid idiot.

"What?" he looks at me closely and I try to shake my head, I don't want to tell him. I don't want to sound so gullible, so weak. He takes my hand gingerly and I try hard not to wince. He makes me look at him, ducking his head so I have to meet his eyes. "John they used me against you. They used how you feel about me, your uncertainty, to trick you. And they did that to get at me. They wanted to show me they could hurt me."

He's right but, for once, the world's only consulting detective hasn't got it all figured out. I try to shake my head and for a moment the room spins.

"No Sherlock. They did use my uncertainty but most of all they used my hope. They used my hope that you feel about me..." Where am I going with this? This is way too much reveal. He nods and it looks like he's realising something,

"Yes, you're right. And they wanted me to know that John. That your hope that... that your ... feelings were mutually ..." he shakes his head he can't even say it for god's sake. "Made you vulnerable. And they wanted me to know that keeping you in uncertainty, hoping and not knowing, made you easy for them to take. And they wanted me to understand how much that knowledge would hurt me." He closes his eyes and I wonder if he's going to flick that inner switch he has now because he's seen how people get hurt when you start to care.

When he opens them again there is some new resolution in them, some decision. I don't know if I like it. He comes towards me on the sofa.

"Lie still," he murmurs, "I'm not going to hurt you," and he kisses my mouth softly. I close my eyes and I wonder how far his words mean anything. He kisses down my cheek, the one that isn't cut and swollen, down my neck.

"Sherlock," I whisper and my heart is kicking my brain for having the upper hand. "Sherlock I don't think...I can just..." His eyes are wide and wet when he looks at me.

"John, look where thinking has got us." I am open mouthed. I can't bring myself to understand what he just said. He kisses me again and, despite the pain I kiss back a little. "John. Good god this is so hard for me." I nod. He's so vulnerable. And it's different from the sex and the physicality, this is emotional and it's fucking weird watching him do this.

"How did they use your hope John?" I shut my eyes and speak and it's the smallest voice I have, I sound like a child.

"There was a kiss, on the end of the text. I thought, I wanted to hope... I wanted to believe..."I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the pain in my cheek. My throat constricts, it hurts and my nose stings like it does when I'm about to cry. Jesus. He takes one of my hands in his, as gentle with them as if I was made of the thin glass of the test tubes I have watched him touch with the same care. There is a noise and when I open my eyes Sherlock has a hand over his face. He looks ashamed and broken. I try to reach for him and he shrugs me off. He stands and paces the room wildly, the ferocity of his movements contrasted by his silence. After five, maybe ten minutes, he speaks. His voice is strained.

"I have no choices left." It's like he's not speaking to me, like I'm a dictaphone or an impersonal audience. "I have allowed your feelings to escalate to your detriment." I close my eyes again, I can't listen to this. Please don't say this. "I let them escalate because it brought me pleasure. Physical pleasure but also a kind of comfort, a security, if you will." I lie still on the sofa, I want to disappear, I try to stop breathing. "Previously in these situations I have not taken things this far. I have retreated and it has not concerned me one jot that the other party might feel some small hurt or anxiety. I did not do this with you John. Because I didn't want to. I didn't want to never see you again, never make you happy again. Making you happy makes me happy." He says this as though it is the most ridiculous thing in the world, a statement against the laws of nature. I open my eyes and frown. "I enjoy your company in such a way that I make excuses to be with you." Now my eyes are wide and my eyebrows raised. What is he doing? It's like he's in a court of law arguing the prosecution. "Yes, yes I do. And I antagonise you so that you will argue with me, so that you will show me you care about me." It's like he's forgotten I am there. This is Sherlock arguing with himself. "And I think that I am better than all those people out there who feel love and honestly profess it. As though there were some merit in being cold." He flings his arm wide, encompassing the whole of London in his rant. "And so I keep you nervous, uncertain in dangerous and vulnerable hope!" He's shouting, at himself, as angry as I have ever seen him with Mycroft.

He goes quiet and continues to pace, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"Two options then. One, cut it all dead. Now. Here. Change residence, move away and..." His voice breaks a little and he turns on his heel. The next time he speaks his voice is soft. "Two, submit to this feeling, admit to it even. Ah god!" He kicks a chair and it flies across the room. "It'll be an experiment, Sherlock. An experiment. How emotions can improve one's logical faculties, secure knowledge of how emotions can influence actions in others." His hands clasp together and he's shaking a little, he turns to me and his eyes are wild, scary. In one violent movement he is next to me, kneeling on the floor. He holds my shoulder and he looks more frightened and more frightening than all his manic moments put together.

"John, I love you." he says with determination. He closes his eyes and exhales a long breath. "I love you."

I lean forward and kiss him, forgetting my swollen face. He kisses me back, it's tentative and soft. I want more but my hands hurt so much that even moving them starts that dreadful throbbing. He pulls back and I can see he knows this, of course he does. His kisses trail down my prone body. He pulls up my t shirt and kisses my scars. His face is so expressive, so open to me that I want to cry, that this overwhelming feeling nearly ascends the pleasure I am feeling with his mouth on my skin but as he goes lower and lower, to the tender, sensitive flesh my body responds and I find myself longing to feel that mouth on my now hard cock.

He doesn't make me wait. His soft, full lips kiss along my length with a languor which inflames me. I am panting and whimpering small moans by the time he opens his mouth to taste me. He swallows me down, pushing against my hips with his fingers splayed so he can take me into his throat. Warm waves of desire wash over me, smoothing away the gritty physical pain and the hard emotional turmoil of the past hours. As I start to come I feel like this is a new start, an entirely new relationship.

He is back at my cheek, he kisses my lips gently and I taste myself there. It's erotic and intimate. He smiles. Then a frown crosses his face and I frown too, my secure bubble of endorphins burst unexpectedly.

"Did you ask where I found my phone?" His voice is clear, this is the familiar Sherlock now, not some heated lover.

"Yes, and you said... well they said... in your other pocket." He leaps to his feet and dashes across the room returning with his coat. His eyes not leaving mine he plunges his hand into the left pocket as though expecting to find a fire there. His face grows solemn as he draws out his hand. In it is his mobile phone.

  
Ok this chapter might be too angsty, too terrible for you guys? I hope you can see where I was going with it, I needed Sherlock to have a real shock. To realise how his actions have put John in peril. So that he could realise that his only course of actions was to admit to how he feels. But did it work? Were you worried for john? Did you wince at the nail pulling? Did you believe that Sherlock would reason this out as he did? Can you answer these questions for me please?

It's been hell for 24 hours. We got here at midnight last night and the van wasn't unpacked until ten tonight. My hard drive was dropped and it's dead. All my tv, films and writing gone. Tomorrow I have to get up to a house full of boxes we can't yet unpack because we have to get the house rewired and my mother in law is here. And I've written this chapter because John and Sherlock were in my head the entire drive down here and I knew you'd be waiting.

Thank you PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear. mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild – you have become a surreal Sherlock lifeline to me! Cx


	11. We roll a twelve

The next morning I woke up in my own bed. I hadn't wanted to be alone but Sherlock insisted that he needed his sleep and so did I.

"I can't be awake worrying about accidentally hurting you John; we need our rest to entrap these people." Instead he brought his bedding from his room and camped on the floor. I had woken twice in the night, my painkillers had worn off and my fingers were throbbing. Both times he lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, fast asleep. I'm not ashamed to say I watched him for a little while.

This morning next to the bed was a cup of hot coffee. Sherlock was obviously trying hard, bless him. I smiled, genuinely happy, I could feel the glow of his words last night still toasting my insides.

"I love you." If only I could have recorded the moment, to listen to again and again. The brief humorous thought of asking him to say it into my phone so that I could do just that flickered through my head. I imagined his face and started laughing.

Thinking about my phone got me thinking about his phone. How had my kidnappers known where Sherlock's phone would be? I realised then that this was an extra part of their threat; they knew things about us both. They knew I longed to see the kiss on the end of his message, that our relationship was different now and they knew where his phone was, when we didn't.

I let those thoughts circle in my head as I sipped my coffee. Sherlock said he liked to let thoughts 'percolate' and I liked his description of the method. I closed my eyes, thinking of nothing and sipped. Hang on, this coffee was hot, how did he know? I smiled again, my brilliant...boyfriend? Jesus.

I get out of bed and slip on his dressing gown; it's thrown over a chair. It's far too long and absolutely awful but I think it will make him laugh. As I wander to the lounge I hear voices. Lestrade and Sherlock.

"So did you ask him about it? Where they kept him? Did they say anything?" Lestrade drinks something and pauses for an answer. Sherlock's voice is distant and I can hear the toaster clang as he pushes the bread down, my stomach grumbles.

"I didn't want to probe him..." Lestrade laughs dirtily, heartily.

"Yes you bloody did Sherlock!" There is a silence from Sherlock and then he laughs too. His marvellous, infectious belly laugh that changes his face and demeanour. I have to see it.

"What's this about not probing me?" They look up and laugh even more**, **Sherlock clutches his stomach a little, it makes my smile broader.

"Well, yes I did want to but..." Nods Sherlock, still laughing but then he sees the dressing gown and he snorts and turn back to the toaster. "Jam? Blackberry?" this is over his shoulder to me.

"Thanks," I say taking the plate he offers me. Lestrade shakes his head wonderingly. I raise my eyebrows like 'see? Well trained.' He grins; Sherlock spots it and mock frowns under his dark eyebrows. Then he shrugs as if he's agreeing and sits down. I resist the urge to carry on the joke by perching on the arm of his chair and take the sofa. Lestrade turns to me.

"Shit John, you look awful. How are you doing?" He stands up, touches my cheek where the bruising is half closing my eye and glances down to my taped up fingers.

"Looks worse than it is." His eyebrows raise, he doesn't believe me but it lets it lie. "I've been thinking a few things..," he nods, encouraging me to go on, Sherlock is sipping his coffee and looking at me over the rim with a half smile. "What?" I ask him.

"I have made my own deductions and I'm interested to see what you've come up with John. That's all." he sips his coffee again. Great. A test. I sigh and stare off into the kitchen arranging the conclusions I have come to over the hours since I have felt well enough to think.

"Well, the fingernails and the cheekbone. Both designed to hurt a fucking lot, sound and look bad but not do any lasting damage. Implies to me that this was a warning and not that they necessarily wanted to do me in." I look at Sherlock, he nods slowly.

"My rescue was, with all due respects to your brilliance in finding me, too simple." Sherlock says the same last words at the same time as I do. Lestrade looks at us eyebrows raised. Sherlock nods again. "So," I continue," I think they wanted me to get away, it's like the torture, they didn't want lasting damage. This was a quick strike to make a point."

"What about the method of your ensnaring?" Sherlock's hands are steepled together, his coffee cup put down because he has agreed with me so far and he's testing me, have I watched and listened to him, have I learnt the science of deduction?

"Someone knows about us." I wave my hand vaguely between the two of us, trying to express the trauma, questioning, uncertainty and ...fucking that is mine and Sherlock's relationship. He smiles and Lestrade looks questioningly.

"Yes John, they were telling me that they know about us. They knew intimate emotional details about us... about me and my emotional capabilities and shortcomings. It's like they wanted to force me into..," he trails off and I know he won't finish the sentence because of Lestrade. But he's right, there's a strange feeling about this, like someone wants to teach Sherlock a lesson in relationships. For a moment it's there on the tip of my tongue but then it's gone. Damn.

"And they knew where your phone was." I say and Lestrade sits up in his seat.

"What? Your phone?"

"Yes, they told John I had found it in my coat pocket. The other one. And there it was. I only put my phone in the one pocket so I didn't look in the other." He shrugs as though it's the most normal thing in the world. Lestrade looks at me and we share an exasperated glance. Sherlock is leaning forward now, is eyes piercing me.

"You've missed a very important fact John." I frown, have I? "How did they impersonate my number?" He's right. It would take someone with lots of power to do that, someone with clout in telecommunications.

" Enough power to use my number, big house in the suburbs, vicious but not damaging, knows my habits, wants to teach me a lesson and warn me off..." Sherlock is ticking things off on his fingers.

"Is obsessed with westerns." I add. His eyes are like a laser.

"What?"

"Westerns, you know cowboys, the TV channel only played westerns." Sherlock is out of his seat. He is pacing and clutching his hair. He kicks over his cup and doesn't bother to look down. Lestrade stands.

"Sherlock what is it man?" Sherlock turns to us. His face is grim.

"Mycroft." He says through clenched teeth.

When we get him to calm down Lestrade and I have some questions of our own. He wants to know why Sherlock ran off to the retirement home and I want to know what happened there. It's a good distraction from his anger and Sherlock explains his theory about the Brotherhood to Lestrade, showing him the relevant web pages and drawing a sort of tree on the back of the gas bill.

At first you can see Lestrade doesn't believe a word of it. But as the story gets more complex and things undeniably fit the pattern soon he's nodding and pursing his lips.

"You went to see this James Abrahams bloke?" he asks. Sherlock makes another cup of coffee, ignoring the spill from the last one. He doesn't ask us if we want one. You didn't expect him to change completely did you? He sits back down and drinks his coffee before answering. Show off.

"Yes, yes I did. He is a typical upper class, arrogant man." Lestrade tries to catch my eye and I avoid it or I'll laugh, Sherlock could be describing himself. "Refused to see me at first but then I told the nurse I was from the Brotherhood, it was a risk but desperate times and all that...," he purses his lips. "He told me nothing but the fact he agreed to see me once I mentioned them was very illuminating." He pauses, thinking. "Lestrade, can you phone the retirement home and enquire as to Mr Abraham's health?" Lestrade nods and Sherlock adds, "now?"

Lestrade sighs, stands up and gets out his phone. He goes into the kitchen and we hear him making the call.

"Right, I see, ok well I think I have to ask you to inform me before you speak to anyone else should that situation arise please. Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Thanks, great." He switches the call off. "Mr. Abrahams is critically ill. He's not expected to last the rest of the day. How did you? You didn't...?" I can see he would believe anything of Sherlock. The subject of this mistrust laughs.

"Poison him? Good god man no. I merely observed that Mr. Abraham's breathing was much more laboured at the end of our conversation. Leading me to believe he had a chest problem which would be exacerbated by stress. By his bed was a bottle of Zestril, an Angiotensin-converting enzyme inhibitor, commonly prescribed to widen the blood vessels thus lowering blood pressure. I imagined that the shock that, after nearly a hundred years, someone had discovered the Brotherhood and their game might be enough to worsen his already fragile health." I translate quickly.

"You mean you deliberately frightened a weak old man possibly to his death?" I ask, wondering if there is much difference between Sherlock and Mycroft except for one of them likes me. He cocks his head considering, then he nods.

"Possibly. What? He's a bad man! A serial killer if not directly then by order. I really can't keep up with your morals you know. I think it helps us gain a foot hold over this club which my brother seems intent on protecting." He looks from my disapproving face to Lestrade's disapproving face and throws up his hands. "I'm never going to get the hang of this!" he exclaims and leaves the room. I hear his go to the bathroom and begin to brush his teeth, it still sounds painful. Lestrade turns to me.

"So, what is going on with you two?" he sits back in his chair and tries to look like he's making conversation but I know better. I shrug.

"I honestly don't know Geoff." I use his first name, deliberately indicating that this is a private chat, not for station gossip. He nods.

"But you are erm...?" he raises an eyebrow and opens his hands in gesture that says 'god how do I ask if you're shagging?'

"Yep. We are." I leave it there but he has more to say.

"Look John, it's none of my business but be careful eh? I mean," he tips his head to the bathroom where we can hear Sherlock showering, he sounds like he's intoning the periodic table in there. I suppose he might be. I drag my brain from the image of Sherlock in the shower scientifically absorbed. "He's not normal. He doesn't...feel things like we do you know?" he sighs, exasperated about how little he is managing to express his concern. "Once, right?" he rubs his hands over his face." Once, I got the wrong messages from him. We'd had a drink and he was being very...friendly. It surprised me; I suppose I just read him wrong. And he's a good looking bloke isn't he eh? I just would hate to see you..." he trails off and I nod.

"Thanks Geoff, I appreciate the concern. I think I know what I'm doing. "I bloody hope, so I think. Sherlock is towelling his hair as he comes back into the room. He hasn't bothered to dry himself again and his grey t shirt is clinging in all the places I'm trying not to look at. Lestrade's phone rings. Sherlock smiles enigmatically.

"Hello? Oh. Oh right." he puts his hand over the receiver. "It's Abrahams, he's popped it. What do we do now? Why did you want me to...?"Sherlock is pacing, long bare feet on the rug.

"Right. Tell them to keep it quiet for now. Not to phone anyone, not his family, his doctor, anyone until they've heard back from you. Come on John, we're going out." I look down, I'm not even dressed. "Put some clothes on eh? I can always take them off later." Lestrade is choking as he starts to tell the person on the phone his latest instructions.

Jennifer Abrahams is in her late forties and very glamorous. She's Botoxed to within an inch of her life and it makes the reading of her facial expression very difficult, even when Sherlock tells her that her father is dead. Her face is impassive but I think I detect a little gleam of something in her eye, elation?

He's talked his way into the house under the guise of a doctor from the home.

"We wanted to continue our personal service even though your father has now passed on." He smiles in a sad way. She picks up a tissue from one of those boxes which are supposed to disguise the real cardboard box the tissues came in. I always wondered who bought those.

The rest of the house is expensive and imposing but in an entirely different way than Harry's house in Clapham. Whereas Harry's decor screams 'I'm understated and expensive', this house is ostentatious and bragging. Everything is twice as big, shiny, small and pointless as it needs to be.

Sherlock gets up from his perch on the sofa where he has been wringing his hands and doing the best impression of someone sadden by the loss of a great friend and client that I have ever seen. He scares me when he's like this. He wanders to a table that doesn't need to be there except for its some kind of antique and Jennifer Abrahams is showing off her wealth. He picks up one of two pictures which flank the beautiful veneer of the table top. He puts them down and sits with me again. I reach for my coffee, brought by the maid and tasting like they grew the beans here and Sherlock sneezes. It is the biggest sneeze I have ever heard. I scream and jump. He laughs and the coffee spills over my hand. When he sees it running down my taped up finger a flash of remorse crosses his face and he goes a little pale. It's not much compensation for the pain in my hand and the embarrassment of the shriek I just made but it helps a little.

"I'm so sorry," he says jumping up, "let me clear it up..," he reaches for the expensive tissues and Miss Abrahams stops him hastily.

"Don't worry I'll just get the maid to clear it up. Really it's no problem." She leaves the room and Sherlock accosts me. Hang on, I think, we're in public! But then I realise he's rummaging in my pockets. I push a sore hand into my jeans pocket and pull out my phone.

"Do you want this?" He snatches it from my hand and leers.

"Yes, for now at least. " Before I can say anything he is pressing buttons and leaping to the pictures on the table. He quickly snaps two photographs and is back in his seat before Miss Abrahams returns with the maid.

"We'd better be getting back to the home, Miss Abrahams, I'm sure you must have lots of things to organise in the light of our sad news. I'm so sorry to have had to tell you this." She stands, obviously eager for us weirdos to get out of her house.

"No, it was too kind. I do appreciate the gesture." But she's showing us to the door and we are on the step and the door is closed in seconds.

"Well, what was that about?" I start to ask him but he is motioning me to silence and crouching down to hover underneath the window of the lounge. I creep over to him, he is listening.

Inside Miss Abrahams makes a phone call. Not unusual I think, but what is strange is that, even though we can't hear her words we can hear the tone and it isn't sad or grieving. She sounds over the moon.

We sneak back to the path, and walk along it until we reach the road. Sherlock hails a cab. Once inside I look at him, his eyes are shining.

"We have them now John!" He is grinning madly and it's infectious I smile and then realise I don't know what he's talking about at all. I frown. He shows me the pictures on my phone.

One is the familiar black and white picture of the Brotherhood that I've seen a hundred times taped to the fridge door of 221b. The other is a much more modern photo, taken at what looks like a garden party. There are a couple of old men, one in a wheelchair attached to a drip. Surrounding them are younger, expensively dressed men and women. Sherlock's finger counts them out. There are ten in each picture. Then he points to the dapper figure of James Abrahams and one of the wheel chair bound old men in the newer photo. Despite the ravages of age and illness is it undeniably the same man.

"This is the new line up of the Brotherhood of Charlemagne." He beams. "I think we have some celebrating to do." He lunges towards me and kisses me passionately. His tongue is in my mouth and his hands are running down my jumper. I push him away. "Yes, of course," he glances at the shocked cabbie in the rear view mirror and shrugs an apology. "When we get home, of course."

"It's not that Sherlock," he comes forward again eagerly and I put my hand out and poke the new photograph on the screen. "Look."

Both of us look at the picture again. Sherlock's face changes from lust haze to impassive in two seconds flat. Because the man looking back at us, from the centre of the picture, smiling, his arms around the shoulders of his fellow players is Mycroft Holmes.

So, did you guess who had kidnapped John? I bet you did, didn't you? Please let me know what you think of events in this chapter. I think I'm starting with some sex next time eh? :D

I keep saying it because it keeps on being true, you guys are amazing. Your encouragement, detailed analysis of the plot and characters, amendments and fangirling are fuelling this story. That and my obsession bordering on insanity concerning Benedict Cumberbatch. :D Life's a bitch at the moment and you're keeping me smiling. Thank you.

Thank you PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear. mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild – even Sherlock himself didnhave such help! Cx


	12. Confrontation

It's 2am and I can't sleep. I'm lying there looking up, watching the car headlights slide across the ceiling. Mycroft. Sherlock's face when he saw the smiling, bland face. Sherlock sitting in this chair with his eyes closed. All evening. Until bedtime when he gets up and makes me a cup of tea I didn't ask for, as though he just remembered how he's supposed to be acting since he told me he loves me.

After another hour of silence I suggest we go to bed and he gets up without speaking and, like an automaton, goes into the bathroom, does the painful teeth brushing. By the time I come into the room, he's lying on his 'nest' on the floor with his eyes closed.

So here I am thinking in the small hours. Thinking about what he must be thinking about, how this revelation is making him feel. I hear him sigh and I sit up. He's wide awake and silent. Eyes focussed on the ceiling, just like mine.

"Do you want to get in?" I pull the duvet back. He lifts his head and looks at me solemnly.

"I don't want to hurt you." The bruising is coming out on my face and the fingers are healing. They hurt if I catch them on things but mainly they look a lot worse than they are. A lot worse.

"You won't, get in."

"Why would being in your bed help me feel any better?" He's like a child, he doesn't understand anything. I sigh.

"Sherlock, get in the bed please." He picks himself up from the floor, unfolding himself like he's half man half deckchair, all lanky limbs. He's naked and the street lights make him look golden, unearthly.

He gets in and I put out my arm, he rests his head on it and snuggles closer. His body is cold and I pull him closer. For a moment or two I savour the embrace as a comfort, a security in what has shifted and become an uncertain world and then the fact that Sherlock Holmes is naked in my bed has its obvious effect on my body. My gentle kiss against his brow becomes longer, more lingering and he lifts his face so that I can reach his lips.

Against my thigh I can feel him getting hard, lengthening and pushing against my leg. He sighs and shifts against me. His hand, resting on my stomach, is exerting some magnetic pull, some incredible energy force which I can almost feel touching my cock, even though he's nowhere near me. I will him to move. His hand moves away from my stomach and up to cup my face, he pulls me deeper into the kiss, hungry and tense. I run my hand down his smooth back as far as it will go and then I flip him onto his back and, leaning on my elbow, I kiss him more fiercely, running my free hand down his chest.

I skim over his hard nipples and he arches towards me. He moans a little, his breathing heavy and his hands are in my hair pulling me towards him. Teasingly I skim my hands lower and lower carefully avoiding where he wants to be touched. He breaks the kiss.

"Tease." He chuckles and I look at him.

"No Sherlock. Teasing is when I do this with no intention of fucking you at the end." I raise an eyebrow suavely. He laughs; I feel it in his stomach. I laugh too, suave just me. I do notice thought hat, when he's stopped laughing his breath has hitched a little. So he likes me to talk to him? Ok. I can do that.

"Because I really want to fuck you Sherlock. I want to feel you open and ready for me, wanting me. I want to feel how tight you are for me." This last comment gets a moan and a shudder so I press on. "And I want you to feel every inch I have for you. I want to hear you tell me you love me again, this time while you come for me." He is looking straight at me, his eyes totally focussed on me.

"I want that too John." He breathes. God this man is sexy. Five words are all it takes. Frightening.

I run my fingers over his hard on, a light, tickling touch and his hips buck forward. He blows out a long, slow breath like he is trying to steady himself. With the flat of my hand I stroke him harder. I run my thumb over the tip of him; he arches off the bed and groans my name. Jesus.

I'm hard but I want more. I want his mouth, his beautiful, sensual mouth. I sit up and kneel beside his face. He gets the idea and he pulls my leg over him until I am straddling his chest, bracing myself on my arms on the head the bed. He looks up at me and smiles his predatory smile. Then he licks me.

From base to tip he licks a flat wet line across my burning skin. His tongue is soft and defined in the same moment and I close my eyes briefly, the feeling is overwhelming. Then I open them again and watch him, his eyes closed in a sort of prayer-like way as he repeats the action. I can see my cock twitching as he wraps his lips around me and his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

It's like being on fire. I twist and writhe, his mouth holds me fixed. Like he is the pivot to my world, and somewhere in my lust filled brain that thought registers and I know it's true. The pressure in my groin mounts and I want to come, I want to feel those muscles in his throat as he swallows but I want to be inside him more. This time I want to look him in the face when I come, when he comes.

I move a hand from the bed head and smooth it down his cheek. His expression changes from concentrated effort to questioning and I pull away from his mouth, a string of saliva and precum joining us from tip to lip briefly. I slide down his body and he opens his legs wide. I shift a pillow under his hips and take the lube bottle from the bedside cabinet, I pass it to him.

He grins and pours the clear liquid into his hands, then, cocky bastard, he runs his slippery hands over himself and he groans. He's still smiling. Ok, if that's how he wants it. I am still kneeling between his legs and I put both of my hands on him and begin to pump him hard. The lube and the pressure of my hands, alternatively squeezing and stroking, is sending him over the edge. I know he wants to come with me in him but now his body has other ideas. And he thinks I've changed my mind.

"John, oh oh John I love..." He's so close I can feel it. I stop, pull my hands away. His eyes flash wide open, his body still jumping on the bed, eager, desperate. I lean over him, our cocks touching, rubbing. I whisper in his ear.

"Really? Do you Sherlock?" He nods; I can see he's beyond his massive intellect now. This is all body and sensation. I relish in the moment where I have this extraordinary, unique man in my hands. "Then let me fuck you." He moans and pushes against me and I kneel back and pour the lube between us. Some ends up on the bed but I really don't care. With my tip against him I move forward a little. He groans and I thrust into him. He is pushing back against me, his movements desperate, hungry. He grunts and I am beyond stopping now.

He is so tight around me, the feeling so intense and intimate that I am losing it. I can't go slowly. I pull back and hold his hips so that I can go deeper, take him all. His eyes are wide; staring up at me and it's like something has fallen away between us.

I hold his knee for leverage and push harder, grabbing his cock with my other hand. I copy my thrusts with the movement of my slick palm, thumbing over his tip as I reach the head. Somewhere in my brain I remember he enjoyed that before. He is shuddering now, no rhythm to his movements, he is just alive and wanting. I feel the tension in my groin building to a fierce crescendo.

I relinquish my grip on his knee and fell over him, driving myself up and into him, pinning my hand and his cock between our damp bodies. My mouth is at his ear.

"Tell me Sherlock, tell me again." I look at his face. He is so beautiful and uninhibited now. All his social awkwardness, the mask of his intelligence has slipped and he's just like me. A savage, an animal.

"iloveyou, iloveyou," he pain time without bodies' frantic movement. "yesyesyes. John." I open my eyes from where I have been concentrating, trying to hold back, to wait for him. He is looking at me and this is the whole man. Not the animal body or the terrifying brain but a hybrid, a creature of angelic proportions and reasoning. "I love you." he says simply, his voice hoarse with lust.

He spills onto my hand, across our sticky bodies and I come inside him. His muscles clench wringing from me all I have to give him. My arms give under me and I fall over him, our breathing forced and panting together.

"I'll never hear that enough." I whisper, unsure of how emotional I can be with him. I feel him smile against my cheek.

"I love you John. Did I mention that I love you? Would you like to record it?" What? How did he? He chuckles. "I'm going to get used to saying it. It's the only rational thing to do. Do you want pasta?" did he just ask me...? I look at him, using my elbow for support.

"Did you just suggest pasta?" he nods.

"I'm starving" he wriggles from underneath me and pads from the room on those huge feet. As I listen to him in the kitchen I wonder if I should dress for dinner.

We both wake up late. The sex and the pasta did for us both. I still can't believe he made carbonara at that time of night and after what we'd done. In fact I didn't know he knew how to cook pasta so all in all it was a pleasant surprise when it was delicious. If I didn't believe it the plates are still on the floor. Sherlock is face down in the bed, snoring slightly. I get up and have a shower; my muscles have that good 'sex ache' that I'm getting used to now. It's a good feeling.

"Hey!" there is a shout from the bedroom. I wander in there, wrapping a towel on and Sherlock is pulling on his socks, just socks.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I eye the hopping and the scuffling as he fights with the second sock.

"John, we're going to see Mycroft. Get dressed. Bring your revolver." He dashes out of the room and comes back with my jacket like I've got ready in the split second it takes him to get back. I take it from him.

"clothes." I point to his nakedness and he grins.

Downstairs Mrs. Hudson accosts us. She tightens Sherlock's scarf and tidies an imaginary strand of hair from my face.

"How are my boys?" she asks affectionately. "Still having fun?" Sherlock nods eagerly and I smile. She's just going back inside when she sees the picture in Sherlock's hand. "Ooh they're all over the papers aren't they?" she coos. I frown.

"Who are?" Sherlock doesn't read the papers or watch the news. Well sometimes he watches it with the sound off. To be honest I haven't; looked at either for while too.

"Cameron's ten millionaires." she points at the picture of the modern Brotherhood in Sherlock's hand again. She registers our ignorance and sighs. "Well I guess you boys have been busy" she giggles.

"These people? Are you sure?" Sherlock holds the picture far closer to her face than he needs to. She takes it from him.

"Yes. Sir Robert Frederick's, the banker. Lord Aberfeldy the bloke whom owns that big green garden thing in Scotland, you know the one with the biodomes and Nicola Bradley – Ewell, the yacht tycoon. Ooh I love her hair! It's a shame about the other one though isn't it, that Abrahams bloke; still his daughter's going to honour his pledge."

"What. Are. You. Talking. about?" Sherlock's intensity is lost on our landlady.

"Well they're going to get us out of the recession aren't they?" they're each donating loads of money to the economy. There was a press conference... didn't you...?" Sherlock is gone; leaving me to apologise and take the picture from Mrs. Hudson's confused hands.

We get out of the cab outside an Indian restaurant on Bethnal Green road. I wonder briefly if we're having something to eat before we confront Mycroft and I'm vaguely concerned as it is only gone ten in the morning. But Sherlock's eating habits are erratic to say the least.

He breezes through the restaurant, oblivious to the kind Bengali waiter who tried to bar our path I smile politely but carry on walking after Sherlock's billowing coat tails. We walk through the kitchen, spices and oil scent the air and I wonder what the hell he is doing. He marches to the fridge and opens the big, stainless steel door.

I am stunned. It's like a dream where things join together in an abstract way because, behind the fridge door of the Indian restarting in an office. A plush, wood lined office with oil paintings on the wall and a receptionist. She is about sixty I guess and her hair is in a silvery blonde bun. Her suit is a pale pink, the sort of thing the queen used to wear in the sixties. She reminds me of Miss Moneypenny. My brain can't keep up. I glance behind me, yep, the restaurant's still there too. Hmm.

Sherlock's on the receptionist before she can squeak. He whips my gun from his coat pocket, hang on I thought he told ME to bring that? And points it unwaveringly at her face.

"I want to see Mycroft Holmes." Her eyes are wide but she doesn't lose her cool. Tentatively, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's face she stretches her hand to a mahogany lined intercom. She flicks the switch.

"Mr Holmes? Your brother's here to see you." she flicks off the switch and sits back in the chair. Her expression says '; come on young man shoot me or bugger off'' Sherlock lifts the gun from her face and passes it back to me. I flick the safety on and pocket it.

A door in the elegant panelling opens and I follow Sherlock's long strides to the office beyond. Mycroft is sitting at his desk. Behind him are portraits of the queen in her youth. It's like a theme in here.

"Bet the cooking smells are hell when you're on that diet!" Sherlock announces his entrance with a barbed jibe.

He glances up from his desk and smiles that small secret smile. When his eyes cross to me he frowns, his mouth pulls down at the sides and he actually looks sad. I realise he hasn't seen my injuries before. The ones he caused.

"Oh dear." He says in a small voice. "Oh dear John I am sorry." I am about to speak although I don't know what to say. Maybe I was going to accept his apology, how very English of me. The man has me tortured and then says sorry and I let him off. Sherlock has no such compunctions however.

"Sorry? oh that's ok then, forgiven forgotten." His voice sounds like he means it, I am surprised and I turn to look at him but then I realise this is Sherlock's act, the fake, menacing, normal person act.

Mycroft spreads his hands.

"Now there's not need to be like that, I'm sure John understands that I only do what's best for the country as a whole. I'm sure, having fought and nearly dies for queen and country," at this he glances reverently Her Majesty who smiles benevolently back in a lovely pastel yellow jacket and hat. "My actions were necessary if not pleasant." He looks apologetic, like he's just told us he's out of our size in some expensive boutique.

Sherlock is round the desk, his hands out for Mycroft's throat in an instant but Mycroft pulls back quickly. For someone who looks like a suit he's remarkably fast. I wonder just what it is he does.

"Necessary?" Sherlock is quiet but his voice is wrathful. "how was it necessary exactly to kidnap John, to break his bone and pull out two of his fingernails? John?" he grabs my hand and puts it right up in Mycroft's face. Then he peels off the tape and shows the mess of my finger end to his brother. Mycroft screws up his face and tries to close his eyes but Sherlock uses his other hand to prise one eyelid open. It's like watching children fight in expensive suits, I want to laugh.

"Boys, boys." They stop and look at me, their expression so similar that it's comical. Why can't I find it in me to be angry with Mycroft? I think its three things. One, he's so like Sherlock and yes he is so different. Two, he obviously has some high minded reasons for his actions and I want to know what they are. Unlike his brother I can't believe he's an arch villain. And three apart from Mrs. Hudson he's the other person I met who worries about Sherlock.

"Sherlock I think we should listen to what Mycroft has to say."

Sorry for the cliff hanger, just so tired and need to go to bed. I knew you'd be waiting so I published this. Hope that's ok?

So, what did you think? I am worried I have lost it? Might be the late night paranoia! :D Tell me your favourite bits, what didn't work for you!

Thanks so much for all your lovely, lovely reviews, PMs and messages!

Big thank you PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear. mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild because you are lovely! Your input, criticism, motivation and comedy messages have kept me going!

Love to the OHOB and my Reggie of loving me.


	13. Revelations

They're still gripping each other like death although Sherlock lets go of Mycroft's eyelid and releases my hand.

"Come on, if I can sit here like a grown up then you two can too." I sit down pointedly. Sherlock steps back, letting go of his hold on Mycroft's tie. The latter straightens his clothes and smiles apologetically at me whilst glaring daggers at his younger brother. Then he leans to the intercom.

"Miss Graham? Tea please. Early grey." He smiles back at us as though the last five minutes haven't happened, as though he didn't have me kidnapped and tortured and we're not in his secret hideaway at the back of a Bengali restaurant. Ok. Right.

Sherlock's pacing the floor and nearly knocks Miss Graham over as she comes in with a silver tea tray with a pot, three china cups, sugar bowl and milk jug, sliced lemon and biscuits on a plate. It's surreal. The fact that the Holmes brothers aren't even batting an eyelid makes me wonder what their childhood was like. It's a hell of a tea party.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice is soothing," please Sherlock sit down." Sherlock whirls on him, throwing the picture of the modern Brotherhood in his face.

"Are you not content with spying and kidnapping now Mycroft? Have you moved into murder as well?" he spits the words out and I look at Mycroft to see how he will react. He doesn't, he unfolds his hands from the desk blotter and pours the tea.

"Shall I be mother?" he asks.

"You usually are." snaps Sherlock. I sigh. There's obviously reasons and explanations to be heard and we're not getting anywhere with Sherlock acting like a six foot and half an inch teenager. I look at Mycroft, hoping he has more idea about emotions than his brother. He winks.

"I have some documents which might help proceedings; I'll nip along and get them." I am surprised, wow, he actually got what that glance meant. Maybe he's not as socially inept as his brother. His brother who is now scowling at his feet. Mycroft moves silently out of the room, he's like a very well dressed cat. I turn to Sherlock who is actually picking his nails, can you believe this man?

"Sherlock." He glances at me sideways, his mouth twisted in a pout. "Sherlock I want to know. I want to know why he did these things, why he's hiding them, if he's even with them and we won't find that out if you keep this up. And you're being silly." I add, hoping to jolt him out of his mood.

"Very clever John, try to insult me so I will stop feeling so... so..." he waves a hand lazily, "well... whatever this is."

"Angry, disappointed, betrayed?" I stand up and put my hand on his hair. I stroke gently. He sighs, rubs his hands over his face and straightens up.

"All of the above." He sounds tired. "I see your point John. I promise to behave."

"Not that the violent, protective thing wasn't a huge turn on." I grin at him and he laughs.

"Really? Excellent!" We are laughing when Mycroft comes back. Gives me a look which tells me he thinks I'm good for his brother. He's holding some files.

"You probably know who these people are." he points to the modern Brotherhood picture at which he is the centre. "And you've probably seen this picture too." He smoothes out a cutting from a newspaper. In it are the Brotherhood at some fancy hotel, all holding champagne glasses, grinning broadly. I notice that Mycroft is absent on this one.

"We hadn't until just earlier this morning." I admit. Mycroft shakes his head regretfully, reproachfully.

"Sherlock, Sherlock how do you get to be so brilliant and omit to learn anything of current affairs?" This is not the time for Sherlock baiting and I clear my throat hoping he takes the message. Sherlock scowls and says nothing.

"These are Cameron's 'Ten Millionaires' each of these British business men and women has pledged to donate a huge sum of money to help boost our economy out of the recession."

"It says ten Mycroft, there's nine here." I say pointing to the newspaper picture. Mycroft looks at Sherlock and smiles.

"I can see why you like him." Sherlock grunts a little but I think he's calming down; he's at least sitting up straight in his chair now. "Yes John the last sum is being donated by an anonymous donor, it's all part of a media campaign to encourage confidence in the market. In actual fact the money's coming from the Royal family but that's actually classified information." He smiles as though he's confiding in us but it can't be that much of a secret if he's told us, I have the impression that Mycroft's left hand doesn't know what his right is doing.

"And these millionaires just happen to be the members of the Brotherhood of Charlemagne too?" Sherlock's voice isn't exactly cordial but it's an improvement.

"Yes they are in the Brotherhood. What do you know about that Sherlock?"

"Founded in 1779 a gentlemen's club where well to do men could escape their women and play games, chess and cards initially and then, as board games became more popular, those too. Membership is passed down through the family. Since 1935 they've also begun killing people in a nasty take on Monopoly." The last sentence isn't in the 'University Challenge' voice he's used for the rest of the story, it's flat and cold. Mycroft nods.

"I suspected you knew rather more than was healthy. That's why I had to arrange things with John." Sherlock is out of his seat. He throws his cup at the wall, it smashes violently, even Mycroft winces, then he sits down.

"Arrange things with John?" his voice is that sociopathic conversational tone again. "Things, Mycroft? Things like torture?" Mycroft flinches a little and shrugs. Then he fixes me with his eyes, paler blue than his brother's, warmer but more frightening for all of that.

"John," he leans forward on his desk," John, you're a soldier. Have you ever had to do something which, had you been free to choose, not obligated by oaths, loyalty, duty, orders, would have been a complete anathema to your personal beliefs and feelings?" I nod.

"Yes, yes I have. Many times." I purse my lips; I don't want to think about it. Mycroft nods slowly.

"This was my position also. I am a member of this club and, as such was asked by certain authorities," he doesn't look at the portrait of the queen, he really, really doesn't look at her. And that's how I know that he is talking about her explicitly, "to deal with the situation brought about by your... enquiries into the Brotherhood's other activities."

"Like killing people for a game." I state bluntly.

"Yes, those activities." He looks down, thinking.

"Their pledge of economic rescue is deemed of utmost importance and cannot be jeopardised. John, you must understand that, sometimes, to protect many people, a few must be sacrificed. You must have had to make those kind of decisions yourself. Triage." He adds. I understand what he's saying but it seems so wrong. I look at Sherlock. He is staring at Mycroft. Not blinking.

"You're in this club?" his voice is sharp.

"Yes." Mycroft nods, he must know what's next.

"Which piece are you then? The sack of money? Thirty pieces of silver?" Sherlock sounds like he's about to lose his temper again, I move my cup away from him, then the plate of biscuits. Mycroft sighs.

"I'm not a player Sherlock. I roll the dice, I make sure the rules are upheld." He sounds like this is something he doesn't want to share, that we are going somewhere he would rather avoid. If it was just for his own face then I can't think of anything that would cause him problems so I think it must be that he doesn't want Sherlock to know something.

"Really? So you just supervise the killing and make sure it's in the game?" Sherlock sounds interested in spite of himself and then folds his arms to show he still doesn't approve. Mycroft nods.

"My role wasn't originally a passive one but I insisted that it become so once I joined the club."

"Why are you doing this Mycroft? What's in it for you?"

"Nothing's in it for me, I don't get anything." Mycroft is only answering the questions he's asked. He's clever but then what did I expect.

"Everyone in the club is hereditary right? Apart from the umpire?" I ask just wanting things cleared up. Sherlock turns and stares at me, Mycroft sighs. Sherlock's hand reaches for the picture of the original Brotherhood just as Mycroft tries to pull it away. There's a moment where I think the picture will rip in half. It's like watching lions fight over a dead antelope. Abruptly Mycroft lets go and Sherlock falls back in his seat. Mycroft smiles thinly. God can you imagine their childhood?

Sherlock looks at the photo for an instant before he sees what he was looking for. He throws it back on the table in disgust.

"Do you see now why I wanted to dissuade you from your investigations?" Mycroft says this like he's said a dirty word. Sherlock nods mutely. I don't get it at all.

"What? Who's on the picture?" I stand up and pick the photo up from Mycroft's desk. I scan the faces, looking for someone recognisable, a royal or a celebrity. Nothing. When look closer there is something odd about one of the men on the picture. His face is fuzzy in our version of the picture but on Mycroft's it's crisp and sharp. He has curly dark hair and an aquiline nose. He's looking at the camera like a hawk might look at a dormouse. He's wearing tweed and in his hand are a pipe and a deerstalker hat, one of those with the ear flaps. If I didn't know better I'd think it was...

"Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft says solemnly. For a second I think he's talking to his brother then I realise.

"Yes," nods Sherlock, "that's our great grandfather."

We all sit there in silence. I eat the biscuits; I don't know what else to do really. The Holmes brothers are both staring into the middle distance and it's like a competition to se who can be the most enigmatic.

"Ok, so that's your great grandfather." I say more loudly than I meant to and they both swivel their heads and look at me. Ok. "And that's how you ended up being part of the club Mycroft?" he nods. "And they're killing people and you knew about it?" he nods again.

"But this was before the pledge of money right?" Sherlock catches my drift and he's on his feet. "And you were still being their official to murder."Mycroft snorts.

"That sounds like the title of a racy detective novel Sherlock really!" Sherlock won't be distracted.

"You knew they were doing this before and you didn't stop them? Why?" Mycroft shrugs.

"There was no reason to stop them Sherlock. Their game was harmless to the welfare of the nation and that is my remit I'm afraid. Not petty crime, that's more in the line of your friend at Scotland Yard I'd say." He sits back arms folded. I can't make Mycroft the innocent soldier just following orders that I want him to be. He's a Holmes too and they don't see the world the way the rest of us do. "But now the welfare of the nation IS involved and I've had to take some actions, not all of them commendable I agree," He looks apologetically at me, "in order to secure that welfare."

Sherlock nods, it's like this is something he can understand. Then he frowns.

"You could have just told me to keep clear Mycroft."

"Would you have listened Sherlock? Really? I don't think so. No, it would have inflamed your curiosity, piqued your interest more if you thought that I didn't want you to look into matters." Sherlock nods, it's true, even I know that, but then he's on his feet again, the empty biscuit plate is by his hand and I surreptitiously move it away.

"But kidnapping John? Torturing him? For Christ's sake Mycroft that's out of order even for me!" Sherlock is shouting again. Mycroft smiles his slow, infuriating smile. Even I want to hit him now.

"It was for your own good. I saw a way in which I could warn you off and encourage your relationship with John. I think it's very healthy for you. I knew that you would deny any feelings for him until such a time where it was too late Sherlock. You would have pushed him away with your reasoning, your desire to be aloof. There was only one way you would use your logic to come to the deduction of your true feelings for him and that was if he found himself in peril and it was your fault. I also knew that you would not come to that, for you, cataclysmic conclusion unless the situation seemed dire and that your actions or, rather lack of actions, had become the way to snare John." He sighs. "You hadn't admitted you loved him because you didn't want to even consider that option. Knowing that your rejection of the option to surrender to your feelings had put him in grave danger made you reconsider the wisdom of your refusal to admit your love. You HAVE told him now haven't you?" His tone is concerned and for a moment I have trouble squaring this caring older brother with the man who has just admitted to adjudicating in a century long game of murder and had me kidnap and tortured. I look at Sherlock who isn't saying anything. He's looking at his feet again.

I want him to say it; I want him to admit it, in front of his brother, out of the bedroom. Mycroft looks at me and gives me an apologetic look.

"Yes, yes I have." Snaps Sherlock unromantically. I suppose it's all I can expect. Mycroft looks relieved.

"Well, I think it's wonderful." He sits back smiling beatifically. It's like he's deciding what hat to buy for the wedding. These two are mad, I decide. "I'm very happy for you both. More tea? Or perhaps you'd like to stay to lunch? I think we can find something?" We're clearly dismissed. Sherlock stands up to leave.

"So, we're just supposed to let these people carry on murdering to save the economy?" Mycroft shrugs.

"I would strongly advise you to keep out of this Sherlock." He sighs.

"I'm not sure I can do that Mycroft." Sherlock turns his back.

"Oh don't pretend to be all scrupled and pedestrian!" laughs Mycroft. "We both know that John is the only person in the room allowed to claim those attributes." He smiles at me and I smile back. Hang on, pedestrian? Cheeky bugger. "If you decide to stop the game Sherlock it will be because you can't bear to see me right. To be in a situation where you have to defer to my superior knowledge and judgement." If I didn't know better I would say Mycroft is goading Sherlock into doing just that. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice that though, strangely for him. When he turns at the door his eyes are blazing.

"I am going to stop them Mycroft. And damn the economy, the nation doesn't need rescuing like a kitten up a tree, people are quite capable of managing their affairs without big brother," he pauses here and I am struck by how apt is his phrasing, "sorting everything out for them!" he turns as though to leave and then turns back "and that Fleet St murder wasn't even on Fleet St! I hope you didn't let them buy that!" Mycroft frowns a little. Sherlock takes a step back into the room and Mycroft involuntarily steps back, Sherlock grins his shark grin." And if you ever kidnap and torture my lover again..." he lets the threat hang before whirling away. Lover? Crikey. I look at Mycroft; he lifts up two thumbs at me and smiles. Jesus.

We dash through the restaurant, ignoring the surprised lunchtime diners. Sherlock leads the way, anger and determination in his stride. He turns into a cafe and throws himself down in a booth. I follow. He orders us two cooked breakfasts, scrambled eggs for him, not fried, and coffee.

"So is that what we are? Lovers?" I ask him. He looks at me, hands steepled under his chin.

"What?" his tone is sharp. "John we have just discovered that a group of rich businessmen and women, the prospective saviours of the economy of the nation, are killing people and that my brother is helping them and you ask if we're lovers?" he sighs, exasperated and says like he's reciting a formula, "I love you, you love me, we fuck fantastically all the time," the young waitress nearly tips the breakfasts into our laps, Sherlock sighs again. "I think it's safe to deduct from the evidence that we ARE lovers. Yes?" then he frowns. "You do love me? I don't recall you saying that?"

"I did," I say defensively. "I definitely did." He considers this, head on one side.

"Yes, I think you did. I was preoccupied." He waggles an eyebrow and I think I blush. He grins and starts to eat like he's never seen food before. I look at him for a moment and start to eat too. Then he speaks with his mouth full. It's not attractive but he gets away with it.

"We have to see Lestrade. We have to find some link between the Brotherhood and the murders, something definite."

"When do you think they donate the money?" I ask. He thinks for a minute.

"Yes yes! John! Marvellous!" he leans over the table and kisses me, he tastes of bacon and wonderfulness, "let them donate the money and then expose them!" he sighs happily oblivious to the shocked customers of the cafe who are trying not to stare at us both. Oh dear.

So, are our Mycroft fans happier now? Did I explain the plot and Mycroft's motivations enough? Did you enjoy the Holmes boys sparring? Let me know what you're thinking, it's lonely here! You've been ace reviewers far!

Big thank you PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild for all your continued support and encouragement. Its nice to think that you smile when you get the update alert!

Love to the OHOB and my Reggie for loving me.


	14. The chase is on!

We're in Lestrade's glass 'office'. Sherlock has his huge feet on the desk and Lestrade is looking at them disapprovingly. We've all just stopped talking, Sherlock explaining only some of what we have discovered. He doesn't like his brother but he is mindful that Mycroft has risked a lot to tell us some of the information he shared this morning. Lestrade asking loads of questions obviously, Sherlock clamming up and me having to smooth things out.

"So, these people are going to do something big and philanthropic and we can't nick them 'til afterwards?" Lestrade sits back in his chair and rubs his hands in his hair. Sherlock nods and sips his coffee; they've stopped giving him a plastic cup after he demonstrated how easily they break, all over Anderson's desk and mobile phone. Instead they've taken to giving him a 'Charles and Di wedding day' mug which he seems to like. He's a bit odd.

"In essence, yes. Sorry I can't say more but my sources are delicate." Lestrade doesn't even know Sherlock has a brother, not many people do and that's how he wants to keep it. I suspect Mycroft does too.

"So, we have to link the murderers to these people." I point to the modern Brotherhood picture. "How the hell can we do that?" Lestrade sighs and scratches his chin, his two day stubble makes a rasping noise.

"Hmm. We've been looking and looking but they're clever bastards." He looks at our very own clever bastard who is staring out of the window. "The only link we have is Imperely."

"John?" Sherlock's voice is distant; he's either come up with something brilliant or he's about to be completely random. "Do you think we could have sex later? It helps me think." I sigh, put my head down and rub my eyebrow. Why does he do this? Lestrade grins and sips his coffee.

"Yes John," Lestrade's laughing now, "do you think we could all..."

"Fuck off Geoff." I smile. He laughs more. This shakes Sherlock from his reverie.

"Can I speak to Imperely?" he's on his feet.

"Well, it's irregular and I'll have to make some calls but..." Lestrade is puzzling through the red tape.

"Good. Text John when you have it sorted. Does Imperely have any family? Wife? Girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend. Samantha Bloom works at the same retirement home. Why?"

"We're going to have a chat with Miss Bloom." Sherlock is already leaving, as he crosses the office full of people working at computers he calls over his shoulder, "and then the sex you promised John. I need to think!" Good god.

Samantha Bloom is standing outside of the Duchess of York retirement home smoking and staring into space. She's much younger than her boyfriend and she'd be beautiful if she wasn't wearing that lilac uniform and have her hair scraped so far back. Her skin is milky coffee coloured and her hair, tied in a frizzy ponytail on the top of her head, points to Afro Caribbean family. She looks worn out. I wonder what she sees in that weasely man in the cells.

Sherlock's changed from his long coat into a short leather jacket and done something with his hair but I can't quite work out what, maybe it's slicked back more? Anyway, these two minor alterations and something he's done with the way he holds himself have changed his whole appearance. It's brilliant and scary. Now he looks like a young city banker, the sort of bloke who pulls a girl on a Friday night in 'All Bar One', shags her stupid all weekend and never speak to her again. It's attractive in a surreal way. I look just the same as I always do, thanks for asking.

"Hi, sorry to bother you on your break." Sherlock's smile is warm and inviting. Miss Bloom looks up from her daydream and she smiles back. I don't suppose she could help it; Sherlock is doing a mesmerising act of a ladies' man. Even I'm convinced and well... yeah I know he isn't. "Couldn't steal a cigarette could I?" He smiles in a desperate sort of way and she hands him the packet.

"Yeah, yeah course." He takes one and she flicks the Zippo and offers him the light. He holds the hand with which she is holding the lighter, as though to steady the flame. Then he looks right at her, under those long eyelashes. I know what that can do. Her eyes widen. He takes a long, satisfied drag. I'm thinking about his mouth so I'm guessing she is too. Should he be smoking again? Wasn't he quitting? Maybe he is but he's bloody convincing. "Better?" she smiles. He nods and smiles back. I feel like an utter gooseberry.

"John? Would you get us some from the shop when you go to top up your phone?" He's taking in a slightly smoother version of his own voice, more casual, less precise. I raise my eyebrows. Does he want me to go now? He nods.

I walk across the car park and I can hear them laughing. It's flirty and intimate. It's a good job I'm not the jealous type.

In the shop I try to decide whether to really buy cigarettes. I even think about topping up my phone but then I remember that I am on a contract and the phone in question is in Sherlock's pocket anyway. He's convincing, I'll give him that. I buy some Fruit Pastilles and eat them as I slowly walk back to the retirement home. I'm not happy at the amount of green ones they seem to put in the packets these days. I don't like the green ones. I wonder to myself idly what colour Sherlock likes and if he's ever even had Fruit Pastilles.

I am not expecting to see Sherlock pressed up against the wall and Samantha Bloom leaning towards him, one hand steadying herself on the wall behind his head as she cranes towards him. I stop, unsure of what to do next. I have to admit that I feel annoyed. I want to run and smack one of them, both of them. My more rational side is arguing that this is all part of Sherlock's act but that doesn't really help much. Just when I think they're going to kiss, just when her mouth is near his lips, his eyes wide open, she steps back.

"I can't see anything in there, sorry." She leans against the wall next to him.

"Really? It still feels horrible." Sherlock is poking his eye. He looks up at me. "Contact lense." He explains. Does he even wear contact lenses? I don't think so. He turn back to her, dazzling smile on full beam, I can see her melting. "So, Sam thanks for the cigarette."

"No problem," she grins back at him.

"Are you sure you can't just get the afternoon off?" He really is that fast. God. She shakes her head but I can see it's regretful.

"No I've taken too much time off recently to see David. I'll see you next time you visit your Nan though, James." James?

"I look forward to it."

"Me too." I chew my Fruit Pastille and look away. Sherlock turns to go and I follow him, I wave vaguely, she smiles back.

"So, interesting. " He's back to his normal, abrupt self as we reach the road. He takes the jacket off and messes with his hair. His mannerisms become more familiar.

"What? What's interesting?" I am waving for a cab as we get to the kerb.

"Can I have one of those? Dreadful taste from that cigarette." He takes one out of the packet before I can respond. It's a green one. Good. He pops it in his mouth and chews thoughtfully.

"Hmmm. Green. Nice." Nothing on the road is stopping for my waving hand. He lifts a long pale finger like he's about to prophesy doom. A cab pulls over right away. What is he? A cab magnet? Once inside, his cabbie instructed to take us home then he starts to explain.

"Samantha's a nice girl with a bad boyfriend. She's been getting some hassle from Jennifer Abrahams since David got arrested. And two other man. I showed her the picture."

"Not Mycroft?" I wince.

"No, not Mycroft, Fredericks and a Thomas Hallowell, guy who seems very unsavoury. She didn't have a name but she did have an address."

"And she gave it to you?" The man is astounding.

"Well, no, but she pointed to her pocket with her mobile in it when she mentioned that he kept texting her his address and I asked if I could borrow her phone to text my mum to tell her Nan was ok." He grins widely.

"And you read it and you've remembered it?" he taps the side of his head meaningfully. He takes another one of my Fruit Pastilles, it's a red one. Bastard. He starts to chew and then pulls a dramatically disgusted expression. He leans towards me and grabs my face.

He pulls me in and kisses me, his lips are sticky and his tongue forces the sweet into my mouth. Then he sits back and smiles and takes the packet. He opens it right up, ripping paper and rendering it useless for keeping the rest of the sweets and takes two green ones and eats them both at once.

"Thanks." I mumble. He glances sideways at me.

"You like the red ones." He says confidently.

"How do you know that?"

"Because your little face lights up when the next one is red." He pinches my cheek, he sounds like Mycroft. I wince. Then his face drops abruptly, he's thought of something else. "So, first I need to phone Lestrade and then we go home and have sex. Right?" I cough on my red sweetie. Then he starts laughing. Cocky bastard. He's got my phone and he dials quickly.

"Lestrade? I have an address of the possible Frederick's killer. Yes, yes the one who kills for Frederick," he sighs and rolls his eyes at me. "So we've got to speak to them but we can't just... I know, I know... I'm going. No not John. Yes. You can use a wire if you like, in fact that's perfect. Happier? Good. Right, call round in about..." he grabs my wrist and looks at my watch "about twenty seven minutes? Yes twenty seven. I'm going to be busy." He waggles an eyebrow at me and puts the phone down even though I can hear Lestrade still speaking.

"I have one more question, John?"

"Hmm?" I look up at him, expecting to be asked about the Brotherhood, Lestrade, my phone, but no, that's not Sherlock's line of thought.

"How are you going to make me come this time?" I splutter and the cab pulls in to the kerb.

I've barely shut the door when he pushes me against it and his mouth is on mine. I try to breathe but he's grinding against me and I can't even think.

"Whoa! Slow down Sherlock!" I put up my hands in surrender, he chuckles.

"Now, John, now! We've not a moment to lose! No, no, don't take your clothes off! No time for that!" He deftly unfastens my jeans and takes my half hard cock out. Come on, give me a break, I've barely had time to think! Mind you, the sensation of his fingers on my sensitive skin is driving me crazy. Ok, not half hard anymore. Right then.

That mission achieved, he moves on to himself. His trousers, smart, expensive, fall round his ankles, followed by his shorts. Those shorts are mine! Before I can question his underwear theft he rubs himself along me and hisses through his teeth. This has got to be the quickest foreplay ever perpetrated in the history of sex. I'm not complaining, he feels amazing. And I feel wanted, Christ, I feel like he might eat me whole.

I run my fingers down his shirt but he's no time for that. He grabs my hands and pulls them down to his cock. He's painfully hard and his skin is like velvet, he feels wonderful.

"John, I'd love it if you put your mouth there." He whispers in that dark tone he has when he's aroused. It does things to my lower back and stomach which I can't describe.

"Ok," I nod "but what about me?" He thinks for a moment, still pushing against my hands, then his eyes open wide and he grins.

"What's it called?" he snaps his fingers. "Come on John! What's it called, oh god that feels good, don't stop that, what's that position where we can both use our mouths?" He's running at a million miles an hour now, body rampant and brain on overdrive.

"A 69?" I sigh; I've never been able to concentrate sufficiently for this to be successful with girls.

"That's it! Sofa!" he pulls me bodily across the room and lies down on his side on the broad cushion, he points at the foot of the sofa. I lie down, but the angle's wrong and he pulls me along by my ankles, chafing the skin, until I am faced with his erection. Hey, I need no invitation here. I give him a long lick; he shudders and takes me into his mouth whole. That's cheating I think, and reciprocate the action. What happens next is the most strange and amazing sexual experience I've had and, since I've started this thing with Sherlock, that's saying something.

Every movement I make, he mirrors, so that in the end it feels like the most amazing form of masturbation ever. The fact that I know it's Sherlock who is making me feel like this, with those lips, is adding to the eroticism and then I get the bonus of tasting him, feeling him push against my soft palate, hard and insistent. Any problems I've had concentrating vanish. I am right there.

He grabs my arse and pulls me nearer, swallowing me, opening his throat. Jesus. I copy him and he moans around me, the vibrations feel amazing and I can feel his breath on my pubic bone. Soon I am coming; my thrusts have no rhythm but then, neither do Sherlock's. I taste him coming; the sensation of him flooding my mouth combined with my own orgasm is off the scale. He disengages himself from our tangled limbs and sits up, grinning.

"Success!" he crows, wiping his mouth with his hand. It's so sexy and just so Sherlock. I start to laugh. He's up from the sofa, briefly stumbling over his trousers which are still around his ankles and in the kitchen with the kettle on. I am still coming down from that buzz but I see him check the time on the microwave.

"Well, how long then?" he laughs and comes back in with two cups of tea, he puts one on the floor next to the sofa and indicates for me to move over. I struggle on my jeans and sit up, taking the tea.

"Twenty six minutes, I'm better than I thought. I think that's what is colloquially termed a 'quickie' John." I laugh.

"Yes, yes it certainly was Sherlock." There is a knock at the door.

"Wonderful timing, come in Lestrade!" he shouts. Lestrade comes through the door as though he's afraid of what he might find. He has a small briefcase in his hand.

"Did I miss the sex?" he asks, and I can't decide if he's teasing or disappointed.

"Just." Laughs Sherlock.

An hour later Sherlock comes back down from his room. He is unrecognisable. He told us he was going to prepare for meeting the Fredericks killer and I guess that's what he's done because the man coming down the stairs is not Sherlock Holmes. Instead he is middle aged, tall with a paunch and is balding. His thin face is sharp and mean and bears absolutely no resemblance to Sherlock Holmes at all. He looks more like the sort of man who used to run an Eastend boxing ring I once knew. Hard bitten, cruel. I can hardly bear to look at him.

"Evening gents," Sherlock wheezes and the effect is complete. I know, because he's told me, that he is well practised in disguise but I never dreamt he could transform himself so thoroughly. Even Lestrade, who claimed to have seen him do this before is impressed. He gives a low whistle.

"Bloody hell Sherlock you've surpassed yourself this time." Sherlock gives a little bow, or rather the greasy man in front of us does.

Lestrade begins to wire Sherlock up and Sherlock, in his perfectly normal voice, starts to elucidate on his plan.

"I intend to call round as a friend of Imperely's who is onto the game. Offer to carry on helping out while Imperely's indisposed. Jennifer Abrahams is bound to need a killer if she's a player now. They won't take me on, they're far too cautious, but they might give me something, even admit to the connection between this Thomas Hallowell man and Fredericks. If you can record it Lestrade," he glances down at where Lestrade is kneeling at his feet running something down his sock and he leers, it's not pleasant given the disguise, "if you can capture it then we have them. Once we get one they'll fall like dominoes."

"After they've save the world or whatever it bloody is they're going to do." Lestrade stands up, slapping Sherlock's leg. "There you go chief. Oh and here's that letter you asked for."

"Wonderful." Sherlock does a slow turn, like he's checking himself out in a mirror. "Would you know me John?" I shake my head.

"Nope. No I certainly wouldn't."

"And you DO know me John. Biblically!" he adds for Lestrade's benefit. I groan. "Right, I'm off. You two can keep each other company while I'm gone." And he leaves. I watch him slouch down Baker St and I don't think I've been so worried in my life.

After about fifteen minutes of talking to his people who will be recording Sherlock's exploits Lestrade gets another small speaker from his bag.

"So we get to listen too." He explains while he takes another cup of tea from me. We've had two already. I wonder if we have any biscuits and then promptly forget again because he's connected a wire and we can hear Sherlock speaking. I think he must be on the Tube because there's a train in the background and the speech is echoing.

"Well I always say to my Sandra that you can't trust the buggers." It's Sherlock but god only knows what he's talking about, or with whom. Another voice, an elderly lady, replies that some of 'them' have moved in down her street. Sherlock tuts savagely.

"And I bet you can 'ear 'em at it like rabbits!" he cackles and the old lady says she can and it's awful.

"I don't see what two 'ealthy young men in their prime want with that sort of game." Sherlock expounds with feeling. "I mean, it's not like there aren't enough girls around without them having to stick it up each other's jacksies is it?" I look at Lestrade, he is grinning. I shake my head.

Mercifully the conversation seems to end there and Sherlock I think gets off the Tube. After about another ten minutes of him walking and whistling there is the sound of an intercom buzzing and a sharp voice asks who it is.

"Sidney Doyle." Sherlock wheezes, "I'm a friend of David's." there's silence and then the door is buzzed open. It sounds like he just walked into a nightclub. I look questioningly at Lestrade.

"Lap dancing club." He whispers. "The address Samantha Bloom had was for a lap dancing club in Soho. Sherlock in a lap dancing club. I'm almost disappointed I can't see this.

Some awful music is pumping loudly on the stereo and I can hear voices in the background. Suddenly a girl is speaking, I can't tell what she says but Lestrade is grinning.

"You couldn't 'andle what I've got in my lap sweet'eart." Leers Sherlock. "Mebbe I'll come back and show yer when I've talked to yer boss eh?"

He's obviously gone into a back office now because the music is muted and there is an ominous silence.

"How can we help you Mr..." the voice is cultured, well educated but it's also gruff and dismissive. Someone who is not used to having their time wasted owns that voice.

"Doyle," says Sherlock. "Sidney Doyle. I'm a mate of David's and, seeing as how he's got friendly with the lads at Scotland Yard I thought I might offer my services. I take it 'is job wasn't finished?"

"What do you know about his business Mr. Doyle?" the voice is sharp now.

"Nothing much, only what David said about it being a long term contract, like. And I reckoned now he's been nicked you might need someone to replace him."

"Do you have any credentials Mr. Doyle?" I look up at Lestrade, concerned the game is up.

"Yer I do, as it goes. This is from Mr Downs in Hackney. "I frown.

"Gangster," Lestrade, "been on our books since we nicked him a few months back. I got him to put his signature on some note explaining how Doyle's one of his men." There has been a silence from the speaker.

"That's most reassuring Mr. Doyle. I think we might be able to find you a niche for a man of your talents in our network. Where can you be contacted? You must understand that your instructions will be given at a moment's notice."

"That's all right guv," Sherlock's voice is wheezy. "What's the pay like?"

"I think you'll be happy with the pay Mr. Doyle. Now, if that's all I must beg your pardon but I have things to attend to."

"No problem at all, here's my number. Give me a shout when you've got a job on." Sherlock's old man sounds happy. The music gets louder again and I guess he's leaving the club.

"Ere darlin! Too busy to help an old man out?" he shouts and then we hear a girl's voice, she gets nearer so I think she must be walking over to him.

"I always have time to help the aged." She breathes, I roll my eyes and Lestrade sniggers. The music starts again and we are treated to twenty minutes of Sherlock's old man panting and moaning as some teenage girl wriggles all over him. I can't tell if it's real or fake.

"Got to make it look authentic." Lestrade laughs. Yeah. Great. I make another cup of tea, I rummage for the biscuits trying not to visualise what I can hear in the lounge. When I get back the music has stopped and the noise of the Tube is rattling away again. Lestrade switches the speaker off and phones the Yard. He comes back with a smug grin on his face.

"I think we've got them."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So, we're near the end friends! How did you find this chapter? (Please don't tell me you just clicked the link, cocky bastards ;D ) Did you like Sherlock's acting? The fruit pastilles (which colour is YOUR favourite) and how about the quickie?

I'm starting to think of the next story, requests, suggestions, advice received humbly, I'm not promising anything but I'd like to hear your ideas.

The Baker St Irregulars, namely PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear, Aelfric's cat, SherlockMuser, mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild have to take some serious credit for keeping me amused and interested in this fic! You're lovely people. You make me smile when I wake up and get your reviews and PMs.

And it my dearest Reg and my lovely OHOB, I love you more than I have words for. Cx


	15. Waiting Game

"Oh my god John! Come quickly! I think I'm bleeding!" I glance towards the bathroom and carry on reading. There is a silence and then I hear him laughing again. Bastard. He's tried that trick twice now. Both times I've run in there and he's in the bath, still looking like Sydney Doyle. I'm not ashamed to say it freaks me out. And he thinks its super funny. Thanks.

Since he got back he's on a high. He's tried to kiss me twice and groped me while I made him some toast. He didn't eat it but he said he appreciated the thought. He's still learning but he's getting there. Lestrade was happy, seems the boys at his lab can match the voice beautifully. Sherlock couldn't believe his luck when he was actually interviewed by Fredericks himself in the lap dancing club.

"It's just a shame we can't use you as a witness," grumbled Lestrade as he left.

"No, no, I can't be exposed to the criminal element! It would ruin my career utterly." Sherlock slams the door and rounds on me, rubbing his hands.

"No. No way!" I back off and, sort of scoot around the table. Well, he's menacing and the disguise makes me feel sick. Ugh. "Anyway, I'm beginning to wonder if all you want me for is the sex." I twist up my mouth, this isn't exactly true but I've never been with anyone so... voracious. He stops, frowns, or at least Sydney Doyle does anyway.

"John I'm excited. "He looks at me seriously, his eyes, even if they aren't his natural blue anymore, are piercing and I think I would know him anywhere, as anyone. "I have two, fantastic cases on the go at once!" I frown, two?

"Well, the Monopoly murders, there's a name for your blog, and you, John. You're the most exciting case I've had in ages. I want to know all about you, every inch of you." He steps forward and I raise an eyebrow warningly and step back. He laughs. "Every inch of your body and all of your mind. John I can't get enough. Really." He looks so earnest, so serious. "Is this too much?" He looks hurt.

"No, no. Bloody hell it's great it's just... well girls don't go at it like this..." Well, not in my experience they don't, maybe it's me? He laughs again and quirks his brow.

"I know that your powers of deduction are not up to my standards," I splutter and he continues, "But John, even you have to have noticed I am not a girl." He smiles a wide, shark smile and turns. "Bath! Goodnight Mr. Doyle!" he waves over his shoulder and I smile. No, he's not a girl.

So after about ten minutes I am outside the bathroom wondering what he's doing in there. He never soaks; he rarely baths as he prefers the speed and efficiency of a shower.

"Oi! darlin' get yer sweet arse in 'ere!" bellows Sydney Doyle. Really, he's not funny and I open the door to tell him as much. What I find is Sherlock, not Sydney whose clothes are in a neat pile on the floor and I'm assuming that pile of gunk in the bin is his face. I shudder.

Sherlock is pink and clean, the steamy atmosphere of the bathroom has made his pale skin flush and gleam and his hair is curlier than ever. He looks like a lanky, shiny angel. He is grinning.

"Mr. Doyle has now left the building." He smiles and ducks under the water, his hair fans our around him like a dark halo. He surfaces and water sloshes on to the floor.

"Sherlock! That's Mrs. Hudson's flat down there!" he laughs.

"You're right John, the level in this bath is too high for both of us to get in it without washing Mrs. Hudson away entirely!" He uses one long toe to hook the plug out and watches as the water level drops and exposes more of his body. I look too because standing up from the water is quite an obvious erection. I raise an eyebrow. He nods thoughtfully.

"I did say I needed a hand in here. And you wilfully ignored my plight." He pretends to pout. Then he laughs. I kneel down on the soggy carpet and lean my arms into the bath.

"I know, and I took a Hippocratic Oath to help those in need." I shake my head. "I'm a bad doctor." Sherlock's face is next to mine, he kisses me softly.

"Do you need punishing?" he whispers. I jerk away, eyes wide.

"Hey! Hey! No, I didn't mean... I'm not..." he laughs again, head back, the water shudders around him.

"Oh John, it's too easy sometimes, sorry." He ducks his head to catch my eye and I smile. "But, you know, if we're going to try everything..." I sigh.

"Sherlock, you're the one trying everything; I'm the one in a relationship." It still feels odd saying it like that; I try not to hesitate when I say it. Sherlock's lips are on mine again. His kiss is gentle and hot. His mouth is slippery and wet, it's a new sensation.

"No, we're both in this relationship." He smiles and kisses me again," and we're both experimenting." He looks at me for a long time. I kiss him because I don't know what to say.

The kiss gets deeper; his tongue pushes into my mouth and I return the action. He moans and I slip my hands along his smooth thigh and over his cock. He pulls back.

"I think you should know that I intend to fuck you John." He says, very seriously. What the hell do you say to that? I blink.

"Erm. Ok. Right then. Yes. Lovely." I bite my lip and he kisses me again, bucking his hips slightly to encourage my hands.

After a few moments my knees are killing me, so much that it's distracting even from the painful hard on I've got trapped in my jeans.

"I need to... hang on..." I stand up and stretch. Sherlock sits up and his hands go to the buttons on my jeans. He looks up at me, wet lashes, water glitters off his hair. He pulls me free of my shorts now and pushes my jeans down. I step out of them and pull off my jumper, it's bloody hot in here but I only just seem to have noticed.

Sherlock's mouth is on me, he's making small sucking actions along my length, I lean back into him, bracing my shins on the side of the bath. His wet mouth trails kisses over me and then he's swallowing me. I make a little noise in my throat and try to steady myself because the sudden flood of feeling is overwhelming. I hear water running but I am thrusting and I can't stop to think what it is. Then he stops and pulls right back, off me entirely. I look down and he's turning off the tap with his toe.

"Wouldn't want you to get cold when you get in here." He smiles. How considerate. He scoots back to the taps and kneels up. "Get in..."

I step into the water, it barely reaches my ankles but then he lies over me, his hard on presses into my hip and the wet skin on mine feels amazing, and the water level rises around us.

"Archimedes' principal." He grins kissing my neck and wriggling against me. "Though I've never tested it like this." I laugh. We lie there, making small movements so as not to upset the water and it's almost better than when we've been abandoned and wild about it. Subtle and escalating desire is thrilling through me. We're just moving gently against each other, he's kissing my neck and holding my head with his hand.

"Sherlock, can we erm..." I am useless, just tell him John. "Are you going to fuck me now? Because I'd really like that." Really like that? He's not invited you for tea, Watson you twit. God. I embarrass myself.

He moves his face from my neck and smiles at me slowly

"Of course I can fuck you now John." Jesus. He slicks his hands with the lube which he seems to have reached from the shampoo rack. How long had he planned...? Never mind, my body shouts at me. I pay attention. "This is an oil based lube John, so it won't disperse in the water. I checked." He gives me a wide eyes look. He really is meaning to try everything isn't he? Oh well.

His now slick cock pushes against me and slowly he inches inside my body. I tense up, I think it's a natural reaction but he stops and kisses me some more and I breathe out and try to relax.

Once he's inside me all the way I have that amazing full feeling that is so new to me. I feel possessed, owned. It's just phenomenal how erotic that sensation is. He is panting with the effort of not pushing me too hard so I encourage him, I move against him and he moans and bites his lip.

He starts to move with me and our rhythm is becoming less and less measured. I don't know how he's keeping going, I know that when I'm in him like this the sensation and the thought of what I'm doing just carries me away.

He lifts my leg and puts it over his shoulder and pushes deeper. Oh god. Yes. Please and thank you. His face over me is concentrated, his lips thin and he licks them as he pushes again. I reach down and stroke myself. His eyes open and he looks down at me. His glance takes in my open body, my hands on myself and he smiles slowly and stops moving.

"John, you are beautiful and I love you."He knows the impact these words have upon me and they are punctuated with tiny thrusts. I start to see stars, the water is sloshing and neither of us cares. He pushes harder, deeper.

"JohnJohnJohn, ah, my god John." He comes; I see his stomach muscles tense as he pours himself into me. My actions become lost in the feeling of him inside me. I come, I tell him I love him, Jesus I love him. He collapses on me and we lie there panting. He moves and I hear the tap back on. I lift my head; his toe is turning the tap off.

"Water's getting cold." He mumbles into my shoulder and the rising level.

"Don't drown." I mummer and he laughs, I feel it thrum though his chest.

Late next morning I go down to collect the post and notice two post -it notes stuck to the door. I peel them off and carry them back into the lounge. Sherlock is reclining on the sofa, his hands under his chin, he's so still but I can just see him thinking from here.

"This morning's thoughts John are; when the hell will these people get a move on and donate this money? What am I going to do if they employ Sydney Doyle before we have chance to arrest them and where in London can you have outdoor sex in this weather?" He indicates the window which is being thrashed with rain with a languid hand. I smile. Somewhere he must have a list of sex experiences he thinks we should try, I really should try to get hold of that list.

"Well, this might answer one of those questions." I hold up the first post it, it's yellow and square shaped. He leaps up from the sofa and snatches it from my hand. The writing is neat, nondescript; it just says, 'They donate tomorrow morning10am.' It isn't signed. I'm guessing Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyebrows raise and he nods thoughtfully, screwing his mouth up and pinning the note to the mantelpiece with the dagger he uses for this purpose. I wince. We really won't be getting back out deposit will we? He looks over at the other note I am still holding.

"And that one?" The paper is in the shape of a heart and it's a pale pink. It's from Clara. It says, 'Lunch at mine? About 12ish? Being that boyfriend. Cx'. Right then. I hold it up, sticking it to my index finger and he reads it.

"Good," he says, "we have time to kill. I'll get dressed, there's some wine in the fridge I think... not the blue bottle! That's not wine. Don't touch that!" He leaves to get changed. I look at the blue bottle suspiciously, some sediment in the bottom catches my eye and I replace it hastily, pulling out the safer, clear bottle.

So, we're in Clara's lounge, it's the same layout as ours but clean, uncluttered and very white. It's like our flat but in a parallel universe, or a music video. Sherlock's been nice for him, not that smarmy, sickening nice he was at Harry's but he's told Clara he likes her flat and asked when she moved in. She seems to like him but it's mainly been us talking and Sherlock watching.

"So, Sherlock, have you had a live in partner before?" Clara sips her wine and smiles at him. Sherlock puts down his glass and looks at her frankly.

"No, Clara, John is the first person I've lived with for longer than three days." He's matter of fact and she could take it the wrong way but she's obviously been talking to Mrs. Hudson and knows what to expect.

"Well I think it's great that you two get on so well. You seem very compatible." She smiles warmly. Sherlock frowns.

"Are you asking about our sex lives?" Before she has chance to answer his question he carries on as though this question was perfectly normal lunch time chat. He nods to himself. "Yes, remarkably so Clara, it's very fulfilling and quite exciting." I rub my eyebrow and laugh nervously. Why does he do that? Clara laughs too but she sounds genuinely delighted by his offbeat candour.

"Good, good for you! I've got to say, what I've heard through the wall has been quite... exciting!" she grins, Sherlock grins. Is this really happening. She turns to me, "John I never thought you'd be so vocal!" Sherlock sits forward, his hands clasped, his elbows on the table.

"I didn't either! It's quite a thrill! And he really shouts too!" He seems so happy to have someone to share his observations with and it's almost too cruel to stop him but, really!

"Hello! Still here!" I wave to them and they smile indulgently.

"Well I'm pleasantly surprised that you're not like that awful harridan of John's sister, ha! Harryden!" he laughs to himself, Clara look surprised and then she laughs too.

"I'm glad you think so Sherlock!"

"Shall I get the food?" I offer. Clara gets up, tells me it's no trouble and leaves for the kitchen, unlike ours hers has a door through and isn't open plan.

"I like her." Sherlock whispers to me and smiles. I nod, Clara is a good person and she's dealt with Sherlock better than anyone else I've seen. I feel relieved.

"Here we go. It's not much because I didn't know if you were coming..." she trails off and laughs.

"Well, you'd hear him if he was!" Sherlock is beside himself. Clara is giggling and I have to laugh.

For a moment or two we eat and it's quiet. I look at these two people for whom I have the deepest affection and it feels good to share Sherlock like this, this is what normal couples do.

"What is your job Clara?" asks Sherlock politely as he finishes his plateful of pasta.

"I'm a gardener." Clara's statement is more than modest, she owns her own very successful gardening company. They do roof gardens for banks and expensive decking.

"Really? I have some chemicals I've been dying to get hold of... I wonder if you'd be able to..?"

"Sure, what kind of thing?" Sherlock gets a slip of paper from his pocket and reads the names. Clara laughs.

"Did you come prepared?" she points to the note. Sherlock frowns.

"Oh, you mean how did I know you were a gardener? Well there's been a van with cactus on the side of it parked here for three weeks and that's how long you said you'd been here. Also there's some shoes at the front door which have a particular type of mud only found in Chelsea and I can't see any other reason for you to be in Chelsea mud, unless you're gardening for one of the businesses there?" It's quite straightforward for him.

"You know what colour the mud is in different parts of London?" she's intrigued. He smiles.

"I did an extensive study into soil in London some time ago; it might be useful to you Clara if you ever want to see it? I could email it to you?" Now they're swapping email addresses. Clara looks at the names of the chemicals and gives a low whistle.

"These are some dangerous toxins Sherlock." She says her head cocked on one side. "What are you going to do with them?"

"I've studied most types of poisons and their effects on human tissue but horticulture is one of the areas where they keep discovering and inventing new ones so I have to keep up to date." She nods and I can see she likes him. He's talking freely without the usual barrier he puts up with people, so he must like her too.

"So, John, how was Harry?" Clara looks like she's asking to be polite. I open my mouth but Sherlock butts in.

"Awful. What a completely unpleasant woman. She was all over me. Ugh!" Clara starts to laugh and I do too. Soon all three of us are laughing, it feels good.

We sit back on the sofa, Clara asks us about out plans, are we going on holiday, what are we doing at Christmas.

"Are you asking if our relationship is serious?" Asks Sherlock frowning. He has no idea of small talk, chit chat, manners. Clara laughs.

"I think I was Sherlock. Is it? Are you?" I look at him and he looks at me. I gesture like 'you first'. He sighs with frustration.

"Yes it is. Yes we are." he looks at me one eyebrows raised. I nod at Clara and smile.

"Good. You deserve it."

The rest of the afternoon we finish the wine and just talk, about normal stuff. We even discuss Fruit Pastilles and my theory about the green ones which Sherlock debunks by telling us exactly how the packets are sorted. Clara likes the purple ones best. It's nearly five before we leave and we've all had a good time, I've even forgotten a little about the Monopoly murders. Clara escorts us to the door, she kisses my cheeks.

"John, it's great to see you looking so well and happy." She kisses Sherlock now; he bends down so that she can reach. "And it was lovely to meet you Sherlock. I've heard so much about you." She bursts out laughing and he laughs too. Then her face becomes serious. "Don't hurt him." she says.

"I've no intention of it." He's serious, he looks at me and I can see he means it.

"Good." She nods. "Bye boys!" She sounds like a younger version of Mrs. Hudson.

When we get back to the flat I check the answer phone, there's message from Lestrade.

"Sherlock? Where the bloody hell are you man? You're not STILL in bed are you?" he sounds angry and...scared? "Sydney Doyle's had a phone call from Fredericks. He wants you to do Trafalgar Square. What the fuck are we going to do now?"

Thanks for all the kind reviews and PMs, you people are the warmest, most responsive and supportive bunch of readers anyone could hope to have. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint you! As usual I would love to hear when you think of everything, the character dev, the plot, was the sex ok? I'm off to bed now so I'm looking forward to waking up tomorrow to see what you thought.

I can never thank the Baker Street Irregulars enough. PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchieees, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild, you are wonderful to know and I'm glad I do!

Ohob , glad you;re reading along with me now. Hope you like it. Reggie, I love you. cx


	16. the Net Tightens

Sherlock is pacing, thinking. This goes on for about twenty minutes, I don't interrupt, I know he won't appreciate the distraction. At some point he mumbles.

"Could just do it? I mean one person against... No... no..." he sideways glances at me. What is he thinking? I don't think I want to know. He stops suddenly and spins on his heel, clicking his fingers at me.

"Phone! Phone!" I hand him the phone and for a moment I feel like a nurse assisting in surgery. He dials and speaks as soon as the person on the end answers.

"Lestrade? We're going to have to fake it, fake it really well. I've got some...friends who might be able to help. I'll phone you back within the hour. Ok? Ok." He disconnects the call and turns to me.

"John I need you to talk to Mycroft. He must know that Trafalgar Square is expected tonight and I need him to be a little less vigilant on his adjudicating this time." I sigh.

"Why am I going? I mean, I will of course but... just wondering."

"Because he likes you. He'll listen to you, all that 'for queen and country' claptrap." He looks at my expression. "Sorry. But he will, he'll do it for you. If I go it'll just be a row and he'll get pompous." He's right and I nod.

When I get back from getting dressed there's already a cab outside. Sherlock helps me on with my jacket; I can tell he wants me to rush. As I leave the front door he kisses me.

"I love you." I tell him; aware that this is the first time I've said it out loud, when I haven't been coerced by orgasm and endorphins. His grin is beatific, serene. Why haven't I just said it before?

"Thank you." he says simply, kissing me again. Then he spins me around and propels me down the stairs with a firm slap on the arse. He laughs. "Be back as soon as you can!"

God know what he said to the cab driver but we're in Bethnal Green much quicker than the last time. I pass through the restaurant, this time the waiters smile and leave me alone as I go through the kitchen.

I open the fridge door, half expecting to see hanging meat and tubs of ghee but there instead is Miss Graham. She looks up at me and doesn't appear at all surprised.

"Here to see my Mr Holmes, Dr. Watson?" I nod but she is already reaching for the intercom. In a moment the door to his office opens and Mycroft voice shouts.

"Come in! Come in! Miss Graham, the tea please."

"I haven't got time for tea, I'm sorry." I tell him and he's out from behind his desk in an instant, even if he doesn't look anything like his brother his lightness of foot and quickness of reflex marks him out as a Holmes. He frowns and indicates a chair. I shake my head, he raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know how to say this Mycroft so I'm not going to mess about." He nods like he appreciates the sentiment.

"My delightful little brother needs me to not be too vigilant about the next stage of the game? Trafalgar Square. Am I right John?" I should have known really shouldn't I? I am still surprised. Mycroft smiles.

"Well as he had the decency to send you," his smile broadens it's predatory, "and not come and annoy me himself I will assist you both. I can't be seen to do anything of the sort obviously but I can... bend the rules a little. If I can't then who can?" I wonder briefly if there are lots of rules Mycroft has to bend to do whatever it is he considers his job. I decide to stop thinking about it, I'm not sure I want to know.

"Thanks, that's great... yep.. Great. Right! I'd better..." I gesture to the door with my hand. He smiles indulgently.

"Of course. Good night John. Pop by anytime I can help!" he waves, a little like a favourite uncle after a weekend visit, he's most disconcerting.

It isn't until I'm in the cab I consider what he said about Sherlock having the decency to send me. Hang on... no. No, surely not. Bloody hell.

I would ring Sherlock and tell him that Mycroft's agreed but he has my phone. I should get another, I think, then we'd both have one. It's ridiculous.

When I get to 221b Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan and a couple of other people from Scotland Yard who I don't recognise are in the lounge. Anderson's sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee, someone else must have made it; it's in a mug Sherlock uses for his experiments with eyeballs. Oh well. Sherlock's standing at the window. He turns when he hears me come in the room.

"Well?" I nod; I'm not going to say anything about Mycroft in front of this lot.

"Ooh look your pet soldier boy's here." Sneers Anderson. I turn to him and take one step forward.

"Shut up Anderson, ok?" His eyebrows rise and I step again, he steps back. "Fuck off with your juvenile insinuations and sneery comments because who Sherlock is fucking, who I am fucking is nothing to do with you so just shut up. Ok?" I make to turn away and then go back. "Oh and that sofa, the one you're sitting on? Yeah we have." I raise my eyebrows, "on there. More than once." He jumps up, horrified. Sherlock laughs so much he's bent double. He claps me on the back and then kisses me, everyone tries to look away.

"Marvellous, marvellous." he chuckles. "Shall we tell him _exactly_ what we did on that spot?"

"Maybe not eh Sherlock?" I'm laughing but I hope he gets the hint. Lestrade interrupts.

"Ok we've established that you don't take kindly to gay jokes and that you like to shag on the sofa, maybe against the wall too?" He looks meaningfully at Anderson, who is lounging against the wall now. Anderson lunges up and stares around him for somewhere that might be safe, he'll be lucky, I think. "Now I have a major murder investigation to wrap up if you don't mind?" Sherlock turns to him.

"Of course. I'm just waiting for my victim." Lestrade frowns and there are feet on the stairs. It's James, the Big Issue seller who rescued me from Mycroft's men. He smiles at me.

"Nice to see you looking so well Dr Watson." I nod.

"Yes, I don't think I got to thank you James." He shakes his head like it's no big deal.

"Ah! James! Excellent." Sherlock takes him off into the kitchen and starts to give him a potted version of events.

"You're going to murder me Sherlock?" he laughs and shakes his head.

"Yes, that's about the long and short of it," nods Sherlock. James doesn't even think.

"No problem Sherlock. Where are we doing this?"

"Trafalgar square in one hour, outside the gallery."

"Can I have a cup of tea first? It's bitter out there."

"Of course, John, make James a cup of tea while I go and find Mr. Doyle." Sherlock disappears upstairs and I put the kettle on.

About forty five minutes later I'm in what on the outside is a van for a national bakery outlet, but inside is a state of the art surveillance van.

"I'll never buy a pie from them again." I say to Lestrade who has one ear covered by an enormous headphone and is watching a monitor. He grins without moving his gaze.

On the screen, large, flat and frighteningly clear, I see Sydney Doyle approach James where he is selling his Big Issue on the steps of the National Gallery. They seem to talk briefly and Doyle cocks his head, indicting the back of the marble stairs, out of main sight of the Square which is filled with tourists. As they walk the view on the screen changes to show them coming down the secluded area where the ground is littered with crisp packets and detritus of the day's tourists. They seem to argue and Doyle produces something from his coat which flashes brightly. James clutches his side and falls to the floor, something dark and liquid spills out from his body.

"Looks realistic enough." Grunts Lestrade as Doyle leaves the scene and we watch him cross the square and get onto a Routemaster bus for Hackney. Lestrade shouts to the driver and the engine starts up.

"Best get out before the ambulance arrives. I'll drop you off at home."

I'm in the flat with the news on when Sherlock gets home. The special bulletin has interrupted the late night film and the footage of Trafalgar Square, cordoned off and flashing with police and emergency service's lights is on the screen. They've interviewed some tourists and some commuters, the former awed at ending up on national TV, the latter annoyed at being halted in their progress home.

"I've got to get this off me." he says as he goes up to the bathroom. "Two old ladies propositioned me twice in Hackney before I could get back on the Tube. What can I say? I'm a magnet for them John!" I smile to myself.

"Need a hand?" he chuckles.

"No not tonight, I just want to get clean. I'd love some toast though." I listen as the taps gurgle on and the bath fills. Ten minutes later he's downstairs in a towel. I pass him the toast and a cup of tea.

"Thanks," he mumbles as he eats one piece in two bites. He sits on the sofa next to where I was sitting. For a few minutes we watch the news bulletin in silence and the only sound is his crunching. He puts down the plate and finishes his tea with a noisy gulp. Then he laughs.

"What?" I turn to him and switch the television off. He is still chuckling.

"Anderson's face." he pulls a dreadful impression of Anderson's expression and laughs again. I join in. Soon we are both laughing and I can barely breathe.

"Well... he deserved it. Git." I wheeze.

"On the sofa, several times." He grins, "Genius, just genius." Wow. High praise indeed. Then he sobers up. "This afternoon, before you went to see Mycroft..."

"Yes."

"Well, do you realise that's the first real time you've said you love me?"

"I've said it before. Definitely."

"Yes I know but it was the first time that you've said it without me handling your genitals." I can't help but laugh at his word choice. He raises an eyebrow. "What? It's true."

"I know it is... it was just your turn of phrase... anyway I suppose it _was_ the first time. Here's the second." I cup his face in both of my hands and he smiles. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, I am in love with you, madly." I add kissing him. He is still grinning so it's not much of a kiss. Then he lets out a long breath, like he's been holding it forever.

"That's better," he says quietly, softly. "I know you do." It's my turn to smile now.

"I'm sorry I've not been more... up front about it..." I shrug and spread my hands.

"I've considered this John. On the surface it seems strange that I should be the one declaring my feelings when, up until very recently, I wasn't even sure I had feelings at all." His hands are steepled under his chin. "Then, on further reflection, I realised that you're bound to feel somewhat under confident, overwhelmed even, by being in a relationship with someone of my superior intelligence..." he looks at me and I try to keep a serious face. "What?" he challenges me.

"Nothing, carry on. It's fascinating." He nods as though it's obviously fascinating.

"So I think I understand why you are so reticent to express your feelings to me, after all you must be feeling slightly over awed, but John," he turns to me, his whole body shifted so that he is towards me, one leg folded under his body. "John, you don't have to worry. I find you more than a little interesting and I can't imagine I shall ever get bored of working you out." He smiles at me as though I am some interesting experiment, I've seen him use that smile on the violin before he assaults it. Bloody hell.

"So, what happens now then?" I ask pointing to the television. "Do you think they'll believe it?" he shrugs.

"It depends how convincing you were for Mycroft."

"Yeah about Mycroft..."

"What? What did he say to you?" he's giving me that look again.

"Nothing. Nothing. He just said something about you sending me because you knew he'd do it for me. Why would he do it for me?" Sherlock smiles and it's a little terrifying.

"He likes you John. Of course he does," this last comment is at my spluttering at the suggestion. "Why do you think he went to all that trouble to try to pay you to spy on me? he hasn't tried it with Mrs. Hudson, but then, Mrs. H isn't as much of a looker as you are." he waggles an eyebrow. He thinks I'm a looker, I think to myself. I smile. Hang on, Mycroft?

"Well, he's lovely and everything, well; no he isn't lovely at all actually is he?" Sherlock shakes his head gravely. "Anyway, there's only one of the Holmes boys who does anything for me." I end, oiling a face to indicate that my comment was a bit 'out there'. Sherlock laughs and puts his arm about me.

"I hope so John." He laughs.

The doorbell rings. I look at him and frown.

"Chinese," he says. "I ordered on the way home. Hope you're hungry." Strangely enough I am, I'm ravenous. He gets up and comes back with boxes. I go and get plates, forks and spoons.

We sit, eating our take away until my phone rings. I answer it, it's Lestrade.

"Hi, John just wanted to let you know that we're all set for tomorrow. Right after the documents are signed and the press conference is over we're going to arrest Fredericks. I think the rest of them will fall after that, we've got too much on them. The club photographs, the times of the murders link nicely to their meetings, it's enough for them to know we've got a strong case. No one's kicking up a fuss down here so I think the Trafalgar square business has had the thumbs up. So, I'll speak to you tomorrow right? Tell Sherlock thanks won't you?"

"Yes, great I will. Thanks Geoff." He puts down the phone. "Geoff," I explain to Sherlock and tell him the plans for tomorrow. He nods and I think for a moment he's sad it's all over, that there is no more mystery to solve, no more disguises to don and chase about London in. Then he smiles and stands up.

"Bed." He says empathically. I start to protest, I haven't even touched my chicken fried rice but he's insistent.

He leads me to his bedroom, it's surprisingly tidy. I look astonished and he smiles.

"Mrs. Hudson's offered to have a tidy up in here." I can't think why she would unless he asked her too; she's desperate to mother him. He pulls me close to him and kisses me softly. "I was just thinking the excitement was all over..." he murmurs in my ear as he licks along the tip of it, I shudder and I feel him smile against my skin. "And then I realised that I still have an enormously exciting lover too enjoy." He chuckles as my breathing gets a little wobbly at his words. He puts one hand on my backside and pulls me closer; I can feel him hard against my hip bone. I lift my face up to him and reach up with my hand so that I can kiss his lips; he stoops so that it's easier. After a moment or two of soft kisses which are becoming more and more heated he stops.

"I think I have to lie down before my knees give way entirely." I laugh but it's the first time he's said anything like that to me. Something that admits I have an effect on him, something without me 'handling his genitals'. It's sweet and surprisingly erotic.

He lies down and pulls me with him. We lie on the bed, fully dressed and kiss for what seems like hours. I kiss his chicken pox scar, his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and he kisses me like he's exploring and committing me to memory. He probably is.

In silent agreement we undress each other, slowly and searchingly. This isn't like any time before, there is no hurry, no desperation in our actions, we know that we have time. His long fingers skim over my body, touching my scars.

"How did you get this one?" he asks gently. I tell him. I tell him about the dark hours in the black room, the men with the electric cables, the pincers. I tell him about the bag on my head, the video they made me record for my folks at home. I tell him about the muzzle of a gun being pressed through the bag to my temple. He listens; his eyes never leave mine like he is drinking in my story through his gaze. When the story is over and my eyes, dry of tears but smarting from the memories, are closed he kisses my lids.

"Thank you." he whispers and I know he isn't just thanking me for telling him my story, it's that too, he's thanking me for loving him, accepting him when so many people he meets cannot even fathom what he is.

"It's no problem." I tell him. I stroke him gently, soothingly until he moans my name and his hands seek me out. We move together, our desire building until it is a fierce crescendo. He tells me he loves me and I tell him the same. We whisper our love this time. It's just between us two. I lie there and a soft lull comes over me; I am falling asleep in his arms. Some part of me knows that, though this is the end of this adventure, my real adventure has only just begun.

I think it's the end of this adventure! Don't worry, Mycroft is inviting himself to 221b for dinner soon and he's got something he needs help with.

PrincessNala (LMJO), Peachsilk ( a doll), Darmed (I like having a stalker!), Clubba Bear (my fic husband), Tasty- Kate( crazy American), 2cajuman2( always up for fun), Tanya Zsa Zsa (regular as clockwork), Munchieees(such a star), Aelfric's cat(tea expert), Nellyington (to the point), mrs winny (likes the funny parts) and Despairandcupcakechild (doesn't normally review ! yay!), you have just been bloody fantastic over the last two weeks. I have so enjoyed your comments, ideas, observations and madness. Please don't forget me, the new story will start before the end of the weekend but I can't promise the regular (i.e. daily) updates bc work starts again on Thursday! But I will be continuing in the adventures of Sherlock and John!

OHOB, what did I do before you, Reggie, thanks for putting up with all the times I snuck off to type and left you with edie, your mum, the electrician, the removal men. Cx


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